


Suffrage

by stringingwords



Series: Suffrage [1]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Clexa, F/F, Feminism, Suffrage AU, a little bit of a slow burn, period drama, slightly angsty, smutville is somewhere down the road, tampering with history, vintage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-18
Updated: 2017-06-14
Packaged: 2018-09-18 10:10:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 27
Words: 102,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9379817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stringingwords/pseuds/stringingwords
Summary: The 20th century has just begun. London is bustling with budding inventions, grand soirees, rumors of war, and inequality. Growing tired of being considered property, women are rallying across the country in favor of their right to vote.Clarke, Raven, and Octavia are scrappy suffragists determined to make the change happen. They find an unexpected ally in Lady Alexandra Woolcott, a noblewoman in the enemies' camp.Or the fic about Clexa taking down the patriarchy you may have known you needed.I don't own the rights to any of the characters of people, I just love 'em like crazy and like to ramble about them.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Been working on this one for a while. Not quite done with it yet but decided to start posting.
> 
> Special thanks to my betas for their, advice and encouragement.

Clarke feels the blood pounding in her ears, heart kicking into hyperdrive. The streets are a blur as she flies past, dodging people, carts, cars, paying little attention to where she's going. She ducks just in time to avoid a rock that smashes into the wall above her head. Raven and Octavia are close behind, running like their lives depend on it, or at very least, their dignity and unbroken bones. The group of thugs that started following then had grown from five to eight and the prospect of being caught was less appealing than ever. 

The next rock is just a little too fast for her to dodge completely and its sharp edge whizzes passed her eyebrow, slashing the skin. Clarke reels momentarily from the impact, testing the spot with her fingers which come away bloodied. She shakes her head, trying to dislodge the pain, and keeps running.

They had been passing out pamphlets in a new part of town, trying to expand the awareness of the suffrage movement. There had been the usual jeers and taunts, but people were taking them too, curious to know more about the movement that had quickly become the talk of London. All in all, a pretty good day.

That was until Raven had broken away from the group to plaster some posters to a wall, catching the attention of a group of young men loitering nearby.

'Oy!' came the sharp call from the group.

Raven ignored them, hurrying to finish her task so they could move on.

'Oy, you! Suffragette!' 

This time the speaker stood and took a step in her direction. He was obviously the leader of the bunch. His squat, jawless face and close set eyes indicative of a dangerous imbalance between intelligence and aggression. Their clothes were drab and ragged, practically identical to those worn by all in the working class.

He took a few steps closer, followed by his cronies.

'We don't want none of that women's rights garbage in this neighborhood,' he slurred.

'Just helping to inform the people of what's going on,' Raven replied calmly, her voice implying that she wanted no trouble.

'Informed?' he repeated mockingly. 'You're the one needs informing. 'Bout your God-given role as woman. Since you don't seem ta 'ave no 'usband ta beat it into you how bouts we do the honors,' and he took a few more menacing steps towards her.

'That won't be necessary,' Raven replied neutrally, abandoning her work and stepping back towards the others. 'I've read the Bible all by myself and I’m quite familiar with its theories.'

The minute the words left her mouth she knew she had made a mistake. She always found it particularly hard to control her temper in the face of blatant bigotry.

'Did you just call us stupid for not being able to read?' he asked, jowls trembling in rage.

'Nup, just said I can, didn’t imply anything about you,' Raven replied, not quite keeping the sass out of her voice this time.

'Oh yer asking for it, miss fancy-talk!' he cried, upping his pace.

Raven dropped all pretense of exiting calmly and started to run, nearly colliding with Octavia and Clarke as she yanked them by the arms without slowing. It took them only a few bewildered seconds to spot the thugs angrily closing the distance. They left the pamphlets where they had fallen and began to dash after Raven. 

Which is where they are now. If this had been their neighborhood, losing their pursuers would've been easy, slipping into a back alley, quick race through a familiar factory, no sweat. But here they were afraid of running into a dead end and had to keep to the wide streets, giving their would-be attackers an easy time keeping up.

Clarke swipes at the blood pouring into her eye, running. Her mind is racing, trying to think of some way to get past them, get something between them. For now her best plan is to keep onto busy streets in the hopes that they won't do anything too terrible in front of an audience. But with the current mood shifting sharply against the suffragettes, it was hard to say how much protection a crowd would really afford.

They are getting closer, only a few meters away, yelling insults and threats of what they will do when they inevitably catch up. The women reach an intersection, cars and carriages roaring past. Clarke runs into the traffic with Octavia and Raven following. The drivers honk and yell at them but they manage to reach the other side unscathed. The men have gained another meter; using the time it took them to stop the traffic to get closer. They’re about to hurl another rock when a sleek black car pulls recklessly into the narrow gap between them. The rock hits the side of the vehicle with a loud bang and the men freeze in their tracks. Their angry expressions transform to reflect contrite fear and they mumble apologies before tripping over each other in their haste to escape the backseat occupant. 

Clarke pauses in her retreat to catch a glimpse of their inadvertent savior. The inside of the car is dark in comparison to the harsh afternoon sun, but she sees the outline of a hat and dark veil covering the passenger’s face. She can make out the proud jawline and columnar neck just below it, and is struck by the stately aura that emanates from the woman. There is little doubt that she's a woman of importance. She can feel it in her poise, the way the air seems to be made of a different substance altogether around her. No wonder they fled in fear after striking her car. 

Clarke sees the profile turn. Her eyes remain hidden but she can feel her gaze upon her, calm and calculating. A little shiver tingles her spine and she hurries to join Raven and Octavia.

\------

They make it back to the pharmacy where Clarke works without incident. Old Mr. Davies lets them all in with only a worried raise of his eyebrow at seeing Clarke’s blood-smeared face. He motions them into the back room and Clarke sits on the examination bed as he proceeds to collect his kit and patch her up.

‘I thought we’d agreed on peaceful actions only,’ he finally says in a quiet voice as he dabs around her cut with a moist cloth. ‘How am I to keep my word to your father if you keep poking trouble in the arse?’

‘It was…’she sucks in her breath sharply as he presses down on the wound. 

‘It was peaceful,’ she breathes out. ‘Just giving out pamphlets when some local boys decided to teach us a lesson for wanting to be more than house slaves.’

He turns to Raven and Octavia who nod in support of Clarke’s story. 

‘Honestly, Mr. D, we didn’t even say much. They were just looking for trouble and we were the easiest target,’ Raven adds, with a slight air of exasperation that he is even considering blaming them for the events of the day. 

He sighs and focuses on Clarke’s wound. 

‘It’s not too bad,’ he tells her reassuringly. ‘Head wounds always bleed the most. A couple a stitches ought to do it.’

Clarke nods as he threads the needle, bracing herself. She barely lets out a sound as he sews her up, biting down on her lip to control the pain. He’s seen a lot of healers that are big babies when it comes to their own wounds, but not Clarke. She’s always been tough, ever since she was a child. He’s patched her up numerous times when she came in, scraped and gashed from her most recent adventures, and can count on one hand the number of times he’s seen her cry. She was always a little reckless, this pseudo daughter of his. But lately, it’s not silly games and wild dares anymore. This political stuff is serious, and he worries. 

He looks over at Raven and Octavia, lounging against the wall in the tiny room. They’ve become family by proxy through their association with Clarke. Octavia he’s known since she was a scampering child, often the one egging Clarke into danger as they struggled to outdo each other. She has grown into a confident young woman with a fierce aversion to injustice and passion for her idealistic world views.

Raven is a newer addition to the group, someone Octavia picked up at the submarine factory where she works. She is brash and sassy, never one to take shit from anyone, which had gotten her into a fair bit of trouble but also secured her the position as the only female mechanic in southeast London; a feat no doubt due to her unrivalled skills rather than her temperament. She rubbed shoulders constantly with the other mechanics and they hated and feared her equally as she continually outdid them. They would’ve taken revenge long ago, but the foreman wouldn’t have it, knowing that Raven did twice their work for half the pay.

‘We’ve gotta be more careful next time,’ Clarke says as he puts on a bandage. ‘Scout out the area first, plan a getaway. Maybe if we stick closer together it’ll discourage them from coming at us.’

Octavia sighs, ‘Doesn’t really matter what we do. If they wanna come for us they will. We know that every time we go out there.’

Clarke knows Octavia’s right, but has to believe that somehow they can come up with a plan that works. Somehow, if they’re careful, if they don’t cause trouble, if they just try and talk to people about it, they’ll be left alone. After all, what they’re asking for is perfectly reasonable. She has to believe that deep down people are mostly reasonable too.

‘We were lucky that fancy-ass motor vehicle got in the way. Did you see how they crapped themselves when they saw they had hit the car of some high-born lady? Holy fuck, I would pay for a painting of their faces!’ Raven exclaims merrily.

‘Language, Miss Reyes,’ Davies admonishes shaking his head, but he’s known Raven for two years now, long enough to know he’s fighting a losing battle.

She just shrugs and smiles in response.

At Raven’s words Clarke is transported back to the curb. She sees the car, the lacy veil, the unforgettable jaw; feels the same shiver at the thought of the eyes she had felt without seeing. Whose were they?

\------

Alexandra Woolcott patiently waits while the chauffeur hurries around to her door and offers his hand to help her out. She takes it and gracefully exits the car, pausing to examine the ugly dent caused by the rock earlier. Her husband will not be pleased. But then again, he may well not even notice. He has his own car to take him around town after all. 

She sweeps upstairs to change for dinner, motioning to the butler at the door who nods deferentially and hurries off to let her lady’s maid know that the mistress of the house requires assistance. She reaches her room, allowing her shoulders to slump slightly now that she is in private. Hat and gloves land quickly in a heap on her bed and she sits in front of her mirror, assessing the damage to her hair. It won’t do at all. They have guests tonight and it will have to be rebraided before she can greet them. She sighs in anticipation of the tedious process.

A timid knock on the door tells her Mary has arrived. 

‘Enter,’ she calls, and Mary moves silently into the room.

‘What would my lady like to wear tonight?’ she inquires heading for the closet.

She is slim and slightly mousy, with large, kind eyes that drew Lexa to her from the start. She is competent, gentle, and above all, fiercely loyal to her mistress and privy to more of the goings on than anyone else in the household. 

Lexa mentally goes through the various evening gowns she brought with her on this trip. She needs something that says elegant hostess without being too joyful. She is tired and does not want to encourage too much discourse. 

‘I’ll wear the gray one, Mary,’ she says at last, ‘and something needs to be done about my hair. It’s a right mess.’

Mary nods dutifully and sets about readying her mistress for dinner.

\------

Lord Theodore Woolcott is boisterously presiding over the small gathering of guests, the half glass of brandy in his hand sending his already booming voice resonating throughout the town house. Lexa takes a deep breath, bracing herself, before nodding at the servant who opens the door to let her through. The guests are mid-laugh at some crass joke her husband has made. He sees her enter and motions her over.

‘At last my noble lady has seen fit to grace us with her presence,’ he says jovially, but the biting tone under his smile is not lost on Lexa.

‘A lady cannot be rushed in her preparations,’ she replies smoothly with a charming smile. But her cold eyes rise to meet his, challenging him to make another remark.

He waves his arm dismissively, as if admitting his own comment was not worth the trouble. 

‘Look at you, a vision of beauty! What man could complain at being made to wait?’

The guests murmur their agreements, which Lexa smiles in acceptance of. The gown did indeed accentuate her fine figure, with a high neckline and sloping back which shows just enough skin to tantalize while still remaining elegant. The elbow-length gloves seemed only to accentuate her firm arms and slender shoulders. And her face, well, Alexandra Woolcott was known throughout Britain and beyond for her face.

‘I heard laughter on my approach; did I miss the joke of the new century?’ she inquires, raising an eyebrow. 

‘I was just telling our guests of the antics our suffragettes have been getting up to, pamphleting, picketing, wandering around the streets in little packs, raising their voices to harass men as they pass by. Most unseemly!’ he exclaims shaking his head. ‘Why, if the working class cannot keep their women under control I don’t know what we’re paying them for,’ which elicits another round of laughter from the guests. 

Lexa smiles politely at her husband’s joke, but his words bring up the memory from that afternoon. She had seen the three women running, desperately trying to escape the hooligans, and urged her driver to move between them. The sight of her had been enough to send them scurrying away. But the image that was burned in her memory was of the blonde, who had turned to look at her, chest heaving from the exertion, beautiful face streaked with blood which poured from a gash in her forehead. And the eyes, blue as the sky on the best of days, danced with a fire Lexa had never seen in the subdued circles she frequented. They seemed to pierce through the veil and into her very being, quickening her pulse. 

‘Alexandra. Dearest,’ her husband’s oily voice brings her back from her reverie. ‘Shall we go into dinner?’

She nods dutifully, taking his arm. It’s going to be another long, dull evening but the fiery blue eyes promise to pull her away from it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, Lexa married to a man, cue barfing. But I needed that to give her a certain status and add a bit of tension. And if you stick with me you just might find that things aren't always as they seem. 
> 
> I hope to update once a week. 
> 
> Feel free to chat me up on tumblr at @i-like-heda


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Clarke and Lady Woolcott meet.

Clarke wakes up to the dull throb of her heartbeat in her forehead. She gingerly tests the spot, wincing to discover a bulging bruise under Davies’s expert stitches. She crosses her tiny room to the basin with day-old water which she splashes unceremoniously onto her face, wetting her sleeves and collar. 

‘Fresher longer,’ she thinks to herself.

She examines yesterday’s dress in dismay, concluding that the bloodstains make it unsuitable for meeting clients in. She hurriedly puts it to soak in the same basin she used to wash her face while pulling on the only other dress she owns, a slightly lighter shade of gray with pale buttons along the length of it. She does them up quickly, then runs her fingers through the tangles of her blond hair. That’ll need a wash as well, but there’s no time just now. She can already hear clients conversing in the pharmacy downstairs and knows Davies will be cross if she comes down too late, regardless of yesterday’s events. She wraps her hair into a messy bun at the back of her neck and hurries down the stairs.

Davies is speaking to a client at the counter and she slips into the exam room to ready his instruments for the day. She works quickly, automatically, replacing the supplies used yesterday and laying everything out just as he likes it. She then moves into the back room to take stock of what medicines they still have and which will need to be ordered. 

‘How’s the head?’ Davies asks stepping into the room behind her.

‘I’ve got an extra limb growing out of my forehead but other than that, not too bad,’ she replies.

He examines her briefly, nodding as if her body is behaving as it should and there’s nothing more to be done but let nature run its course.

‘I need you to do an extra delivery this morning,’ he says.

He immediately has Clarke’s attention. She usually does the deliveries in the afternoon unless there is an emergency and the client needs the medicine right away. 

‘It’s a new client, Lady Woolcott,’ he continues, handing her the address.

Clarke whistles.

‘What does some posh lady need our drugs for? Don’t they have their own fancy doctors?’

‘Apparently she is in desperate need of barbiturates and there is a shortage of them among the upper class. Her servant arrived here early this morning and I said I would send you along with them as soon as I could prepare the order.’

Clarke shakes her head, wondering at the fact that a lady who has everything needs sleeping pills so desperately she is willing to get them from a dingy little pharmacy in southeast London. She quickly downs a mug of tea and inhales a piece of stale toast as she steps into her shoes. She pulls on a drab coat and wraps a pale blue scarf around her neck, the only inheritance she took from her mother. Davies comes over with the package he’s prepared, looking a little worried at the obvious swell on her forehead. Clarke notices his glance and pulls her black bonnet low on her head. It doesn’t quite hide the wound but at least it shades it enough so that it’s not the very first thing you notice.

‘Try and be polite,’ he says by way of farewell.

Clarke scoffs a little, ‘I’m always polite, my father raised me well.’

She is happy to step outside, even if the day is a bit gloomy. The cool air feels good on her cheeks and soothes the pain in her head. She crosses the streets confidently, enjoying their relative emptiness during the hours when the factories are heaving with the throngs of London. She is once again thankful to be here and not trapped in one of the stale sweatshops. Hopping onto a horse-drawn tram allows her to make good time, and she gets lost only once on her way to the house. 

She slows as she walks down the street. It’s broad and spacious and there are actually trees scattered here and there between the tall houses. She gazes at them, wonderingly. It’s hard for someone who moved from a cramped, 2-bedroom house to a tiny storage room above a pharmacy to imagine living in a place like this. At last she finds the one she seeks. It looms tall and beautiful before her, with wide, sweeping windows and a stately brick façade. She pulls her hat a little lower over her stitches and walks up to the door.

\------

Lexa is staring out the window, waiting for her guest to arrive when she sees the woman enter the street hesitantly. She is gaping up at the houses with a combination of awe and irreverence that Lexa finds amusing. But she’s doing more than simply admiring the houses, she seems to be looking for a specific one, consulting a piece of paper in her hand. Lexa is intrigued to see her stop at her house, staring up at it for a full minute before rearranging her bonnet and stepping up to the door. Her heart skips a beat as the sun catches the upturned face. Those eyes!

She cracks open the door to the study so that she can overhear the conversation as the butler opens the door. Ah yes, the drugs she ordered that morning. She had forgotten. She hears the butler telling her that she can just give them to him, when a flash of impulse takes over and she opens the door wider.

‘Gustus,’ she calls, her voice the epitome of nonchalance, ‘if it’s the pharmacist send him in. I want to inquire after the product.’

She smiles a little to herself, thinking that the misgendering of the delivery girl is sure to put off any suspicion that she had been eavesdropping. 

‘Yes, Madam,’ comes the deferential, if shocked, reply.

The impropriety of her action only makes it all the more fun.

\------

Clarke is surprised to hear the firm, melodic voice from the nearby room. The butler, tall, broad and oddly out of place in his uniform, looks mortified at the thought of leading a common delivery girl into the study. But Clarke can see neither of them has any choice really, so she follows him into the house after a moment’s hesitation. 

The hall is high-ceilinged and spacious, giving the air a lightness Clarke has never experienced indoors. The décor is rich and tasteful and she can’t help admiring it as she is ushered into what must be the study. The walls are lined with dark mahogany bookshelves and more books than Clarke has ever seen in her life. The drapes are flung open and light streams in through the large windows bathing the room in warmth. 

A small sound draws her attention to the sofa and she turns quickly to find the lady of the house. It is not at all what she expected! She’s young, perhaps as young as Clarke herself, but there is a majesty to her bearing that belies age. It’s not the elegant day dress and shapely form beneath it that have Clarke staring, it’s the face; high, noble cheekbones, the chiseled jawline, the full, rich lips, but most of all, the emerald green eyes that meet hers unflinchingly. 

‘Thank you, Gustus, you may leave us,’ she says in a voice that is both soft and imposing. 

The butler hesitates, casting another glance at Clarke’s shabby attire, no doubt wondering once more at the respectability of this. But he is in no position to question his lady’s actions and retreats with a slight bow, leaving the door open behind him. Clarke swears she sees Lady Woolcott crack a small smile at this, but is sure she is mistaken as she turns to find the beautiful face impassive.

‘Thank you for bringing the pills so quickly,’ she says politely, reaching out her hand so Clarke can hand her the package. 

Clarke does so, careful not to get too close, feeling out of place in this world. Lady Woolcott peruses the contents carefully, removing a pill and examining it. Clarke watches her, thinking she must be very familiar with these pills to be analyzing them so closely. Wondering what in the world could possibly prevent this magnificent creature from sleeping.

‘What is your name?’ she asks suddenly, and Clarke blushes slightly at being caught staring for the second time.

‘Clarke,’ she replies, adding ‘Griffin, my lady,’ as an afterthought.

‘Clarke,’ she repeats slowly, and Clarke shivers a little at the way she says her name, rolling it around in her mouth as if tasting the sound of it, tongue flicking at the ‘l’, the breathy ‘ar’, culminating in a firm, half-whispered ‘k’ at the end.

‘That’s an unusual name for a girl,’ she continues pensively.

‘My father was an unusual man,’ Clarke replies, a hint of pride in her voice.

‘Hmmm,’ Lexa acknowledges. ‘Did you know that while modern English defines Clarke as a teacher or scholar, the original Egyptian hieroglyph it derived from meant ‘to love’, so its true meaning is closer to ‘lover of wisdom’.

Clarke is taken aback at this. She wasn’t sure what to expect, but definitely not a lesson on the meaning of her name. She feels a little swell of pride inside her, though, hearing the poetic meaning spoken with Lady Woolcott’s regal accent.

‘I didn’t know that,’ she replies with a small smile.

‘So, Clarke, is this what you do when you’re not out causing trouble?’ she asks neutrally.

Clarke is completely caught off guard and her brow immediately furrows in suspicion. 

‘I don’t know what you’re referring to, milady,’ she replies coolly, making the title sound suspiciously insulting.

‘Oh! And I suppose your head wound is merely the result of a mundane household accident rather than illicit suffragette activities.’ 

Her tone is still low to avoid being heard by the butler, but Clarke hears the unwavering certainty behind the challenge.

She looks at her more closely; the jawline, the neck, the assertive tilt of her head. She feels a flutter low in her stomach; the woman from the car.

‘It’s suffragist,’ she corrects, her tone a mixture of admission and defiance. ‘Suffragettes believe in using any means necessary, even violence, to further the cause. We are strictly passive.’

‘The dent in my car begs to differ,’ Lexa counters evenly, though Clarke can almost hear a hint of amusement in her tone.

‘I believe that came from the other side,’ Clarke shoots back, all ‘miladys’ forgotten in her passion to establish her innocence.

Lexa tilts her head and Clarke feels the intensity of her gaze as she examines her, as if trying to answer some unspoken question. But Clarke Griffin is not one to shirk from any gaze and she meets her eyes steadily. 

‘I have a proposition for you,’ she says after concluding her silent appraisal. ‘I have a cousin who is sympathetic to your cause. He is a member of the House of Commons and would benefit from speaking with someone as actively involved as you seem to be. Would you meet with him?’

Clarke is surprised at the proposal. She wants to say ‘yes’, ‘yes certainly!’ This is the break they’ve been waiting for, someone with connections who could turn the tide in their favor. But she tempers her enthusiasm with suspicion. She does not know this woman or her agenda. Despite her help the day before, she is still wary. 

‘We don’t make decisions by ourselves,’ she replies cautiously, ‘I will have to bring it up at our next meeting.’ 

Lady Woolcott looks slightly disappointed, but nods.

‘And when will this meeting take place?’ she asks. 

Clarke is hesitant to give too many details. 

‘I can have a reply for you tomorrow,’ she says at last.

‘Very well,’ Lexa says. ‘You may return here. Bring more of these,’ she gestures to the bag, ‘and tell them I sent for you. If the answer is no there is no need to come.’ 

Clarke is a little irked at the dismissiveness of the last line, but it is quickly replace by surprise when Lady Woolcott rises and offers her her hand. She stares at it a moment, before reaching out her own. Her fingers are light and delicate, but firm

‘May we meet again,’ she says, pressing Clarke’s hand. 

Clarke finds herself once more drawn into the deep green pools of her eyes before she pulls away. The butler is waiting in the hall to escort her to the door and within moments she finds herself back outside on the unfamiliar street wondering if it was all just a dream.

\-------

Lexa returns to the window once again to watch Clarke disappear down the street. She releases a long sigh containing all the controlled emotions of the last hour. She replays the encounter in her head. It had been hard to control her unexpected relief at seeing her wound properly patched up, although the angry welt made her want to wince it sympathy. She thinks of the blue eyes flashing with passion as she defended her cause, framed by a few strands of blond hair that had managed to escape the loose bun when she had taken off her bonnet. She had a radiance about her, despite the shabby clothes and dirty hair. 

She is brought back to the present by a car pulling up the street and rechecks her appearance, readying herself for the visitor. She hears him greet Indra good-naturedly before being shown in. 

‘Alexandra!’ he exclaims with a smile on entering the study.

‘Marcus,’ she replies with a smile of her own, greeting him with a kiss on the cheek. 

Lord Kane is in his mid-forties, about her husband’s age, tall and handsome, with wavy hair and a beard that suits him nicely. His eyes sparkle kindly and were indeed what made Lexa warm to him in the first place. In this world of shallow gossip and pseudo-relationships he is her only real friend, probably the reason she survived it in the first place.

‘We missed you last night,’ she says, motioning for him to sit and ringing for tea. 

‘I only just got in this morning,’ he says by way of apology. ‘What grand happenings did I miss?’

‘Only my husband carrying on about his dislike of suffragettes and how he plans to crush their attempts. Really, I thought I might have killed him without you here to stop me.’

Marcus chuckles softly. ‘Still at it, ei. We must tread carefully. It would not do for us to openly oppose him just yet. The tide is not yet in our favor. But things might be changing.’

‘Yes,’ she replies pensively, ‘I had the good fortune of running into a suffragette, suffragist,’ she corrects quickly, ‘yesterday. It could be a good opportunity for my cousin.’

He raises his eyebrows curiously. ‘Has she agreed to meet with him?’

‘Not yet, but I believe she will.’

Kane nods at the note of confidence in her voice. 

‘Keep me updated. You know I’ll help where I can.’

She nods, grateful for his support. 

‘So, how have you been?’ he asks, and the next few hours are spent in an altogether more pleasant form of gossip than the night before.

\------

Clarks is slightly late to the meeting, having had to hurry with all the other deliveries after her trip to Lady Woolcott’s house. Bellamy, Octavia’s older brother, is at the front, making an impassioned speech for upping their attempts, using more aggressive tactics when necessary. 

‘We can’t just expect them to roll over and give us something that will weaken their power. If we really want it, we have to show them we’re strong enough to take it for ourselves.’

Clarke scans the room, noting that quite a few are nodding their heads in agreement. Bellamy always did have a knack with swaying crowds. But he’s hot-headed and restless, tension building inside him until he needs to lash out at the closest target. A part of her, the impatient, impulsive, sick-of-playing-by-other-people’s-rules part, gets it. It’s hard to remain peaceful when the backlash they face grows more and more aggressive. 

‘I disagree,’ Clarke interjects, stepping to the front. ‘Violent tactics will only give the opposition stronger arguments against us. We’re trying to convince them to give women the vote because they are rational, upstanding citizens who should have a voice in the society they contribute to.’

‘Clarke’s right,’ Finn agrees. ‘If we start attacking and disrupting that society it will be harder to convince them that women’s contributions will be beneficial.

Clarke looks at him neutrally. Finn Collins is boyishly handsome and has a way of deescalating things when passions run a too high. He somehow always manages to remember the good in humanity and sincerely believes people will do the right thing if given a chance. Which explains why Clarke had an embarrassing crush on him a year ago. That was, until she discovered he was playing with both her and Raven’s affections simultaneously. That put a speedy end to that she and Raven had eventually gotten over the resultant friction. 

At first, she wanted to freeze him out and have nothing more to do with him. But he is one of the few men here fully committed to their cause. And unlike Bellamy believes in achieving that peaceably. He might be a selfish arsehole, but he was still a valuable asset and Clarke is willing to work with that.

She watches the room erupt into heated debate when Raven cites the attack on them the other day as proof that some people simply cannot be reasoned with. Clarke sighs. Yes, they may have to change tactics to gain more attention, but tonight’s arguments are fueled by rage and that is never a good time to strategize. 

She pushes to the center again, raising her voice slightly to get their attention. She tells them of Lady Woolcott and her cousin the MP, how this could be their chance to have a voice in the House of Commons, a voice where it could matter.

‘Lady Woolcott?’ Finn interrupts. ‘Lady Alexandra Woolcott?’ he repeats again incredulously.

‘I imagine so,’ Clarke replies, ‘though I didn’t get her first name.’

Bellamy laughs sardonically. ‘Lord Woolcott is the loudest voice against the vote for women in the House of Lords, even more vehement in his desire to see us fail than Lord Manderly. I cannot imagine what his wife has planned, siccing her cousin on you, but it can’t be anything good.’

Clarke is surprised, kicking herself for not learning more about Lady Woolcott before coming to the meeting. She thinks of her, standing in her plush study, arm outstretched in a gesture of equality, eyes deep and sincere.

‘I think she’s for real,’ Clarke says after a pause. ‘Her husband might be a pompous windbag but she’s a woman who would benefit from the vote just the same as the rest of us. We should give her a chance.’

There is a murmur amongst the others, back and forth discussions as they imagine the pros and cons.

‘I’ll meet him first,’ Clarke says, ‘somewhere neutral. If it turns out to be a trap at least I’ll be the only one who goes down.’

Bellamy and Raven are vociferously unhappy with this plan, but an MP on their side would be far too valuable not to risk it. 

‘I’ll go with her. Griffin and I have been getting into trouble together since we could walk. I’m not about to let her go without me,’ Octavia says.

With that the matter is settled and they break up to melt back into the alleys and eventually home.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enter Lucius

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for your comments on the last chapter. They give me a bit more motivation to write. :)

Lady Alexandra Woolcott cannot remember the last time she felt this anxious. She only managed a few hours of sleep before the first rays of sunlight had her mind churning again, try as she might to coax it back to sleep. 

She regrets not taking not taking one of her sleeping pills as she feels the bags under her eyes. Depending on Clarke’s reply, today could be a long day. Why couldn’t she will herself to sleep? She is a rational being after all. Why does telling herself there’s nothing more to be done never work. Because. Because there is only so much you can control. It seems the more she controls during the day the less she can suppress at night. Last night was bad. 

And she’s hit with a sinking realization: she cares. She cares if Clarke shows up. She cares if she accepts her offer to help her. She feels a dull thud in her chest, growing slightly nauseated at the thought. Of all the stupid things! She had hoped Clarke would come, that somehow through her she could do some good, but now she finds herself wishing with all her might that she will never see her again. Lady Alexandra Woolcott does not have the luxury of caring. 

She dresses quickly, too bothered to have Mary fuss over her today, and decides to take her breakfast in the dining room. The servants are surprised to see her, but they have by now grown accustomed to their mistress’s somewhat erratic habits, and merely scurry around setting her place at the table. She eats in silence, alone with her thoughts, trying to fill her mind with mundane worries to fill the time. Why in the world did she leave it up to Clarke to come or not, putting her in the tortuous position of waiting? She is obviously losing her touch.

She moves to her study after breakfast to answer letters, hoping her husband is too busy to interrupt. She certainly does not have the patience for him today. She hears him bumble about and eventually leave without a word to her. She goes back to her letter, regarding it for a moment, before crumpling it with a sigh and tossing it into the bin. It’s the third one today. She can’t seem to focus. Her eyes keep wandering to the window. She pulls out a new sheet and, taking her pen in her left hand, starts writing again. This time the words flow; bold and clear. She finishes several letters before she hears the knock on the front door and realizes it’s almost noon.

\------

Clarke can immediately tell that the butler is surprised to see her again, a fact that he hides well in his curt nod. Clarke holds up the package, explaining that Lady Woolcott is expecting her. He looks suspicious, but after yesterday’s events this normally outlandish statement cannot be summarily dismissed, and he motions her inside to wait while he consults with his mistress. 

Clarke is ushered into the same room as yesterday, where she finds Lady Woolcott sitting at a handsome desk, writing. She’s wearing a forest green day dress and her hair is loose, sunlight brightening the perfect brown curls. She ignores Clarke for a few moments while she finishes the letter. Clarke watches her delicate, precise strokes curving gracefully on the page, pen held firmly in her hand. She’s not wearing gloves today and Clarke admires the long delicate fingers at work. 

‘You came.’

Like yesterday, Clarke is startled out of her observation by the cool voice. 

‘Yes. Although there was some debate over whether I should when we discovered who your husband is.’

Lady Woolcott simply nods, as if expecting this. She sets down her pen and finally raises her eyes to look at Clarke.

‘I am not my husband,’ she replies simply and Clarke has little argument for that.

‘My cousin is available this afternoon if that suits you,’ she continues businesslike. 

Clarke nods. ‘I can meet him with a friend when she gets off work. 7 pm at the Brooksfield hotel.’

Lady Woolcott nods and goes back to writing and Clarke waits, assuming she is taking down the information she’s just given her. Only she continues writing for several more minutes, much longer than it should have taken, absorbed in her words as if Clarke were no longer there. 

Clarke feels a little flare of rage. Sure, she’s some fancy lady, but unlike her Clarke has work to do and the very real possibility of going to bed hungry if she doesn’t do it. She’s taken several hours out of her day to come here, only to be met with a half-dozen words and polite indifference. Clarke is not one to bury her frustration.

‘You know, you could be a lot more help to us than your cousin.’ 

Her tone is slightly more biting than she intended. Innocent words dripping with unutterable anger.

Lady Woolcott looks up again, only mildly surprised by the interruption. She says nothing but her gaze seems to invite Clarke to continue.

‘You are a respected lady, married to one of our most outspoken opponents. And you’re a woman! This is an issue that concerns you directly. If you spoke out people would listen, people who matter enough to make a difference.’

Lady Woolcott is silent a moment before replying, ‘It would not be prudent for me to do so at this time.’

Clarke scoffs, her anger flaring just a little more at her unnerving calm. 

‘Not prudent? Do you think these things are achieved through being prudent?’ she challenges. ‘My own mother kicked me out of our house when she found out I was involved. I can’t show my face in half the establishments in town. We’re seen as willful, ungrateful spinsters who spend time in radical activities because we can’t attract a man. We run the risk of losing our jobs, not having enough money to eat, or maybe being taken to prison, and you’re telling me it’s not prudent for you to publicly defend our cause?’

Clarke herself is surprised by the forceful exasperation of her words. But watching Lexa sit there behind her extravagant desk, prim and proper, not a care in the world, while hoping that Clarke will go out and fight to win her the right to vote, well, it brought up a lot of anger. She knows it’s not all directed towards Lady Woolcott, she barely knows her. But it’s for all of those that cannot see the importance of the cause, that prefer to maintain the comfort of the status quo, that hope change will come about without ruffling any feathers. Clarke is sick of putting everything in her own life on the line for those who do nothing.

Lady Woolcott purses her lips and swallows slightly at Clarke’s words. She is silent for a moment, eyes fixed on Clarke. When she does speak it is low and calm.

‘I am sorry for the hardship you have endured, Miss Griffin,’ the name is spoken kindly, almost as a sign of respect, but Clarke feels the switch to her last name like a slap in the face. ‘I admire your courage and know that when this battle is won it will be thanks to those like you who risk so much. Nevertheless, we all have our parts to play. I have a duty to my name, to my husband, and with that duty also comes the means to do things I could not do otherwise. I have learned to be patient, to work behind the scenes. It is perhaps not as daring as your role, but it is the one provided to me and I intend on playing it.’

Her calm response makes Clarke even more mad, especially because it makes sense. If Lady Woolcott is sent back to her country estate in shame it would accomplish little. Still, it’s infuriating that she will just continue to live her comfortable little life while Clarke does the grunt work. 

‘My cousin will be there this evening, along with a friend. I will give him your description so that he knows what to look for. Wear the scarf, the blue one you wore yesterday,’ she continues.

Clarke nods and turns to leave, not bothering to be dismissed. 

\------

Lexa exhales shakily when she hears the front door close. She closes her eyes, pressing her fingers into her palm to relieve some of the pressure.

The one that matches your eyes.

The treacherous words had been on the tip of her tongue, fighting to be uttered. But she had pressed her lips together hard, keeping them back. And Clarke had stormed out, thinking she was a rich, spoiled princess too cowardly to get her hands dirty. 

‘It’s for the best,’ she tells herself firmly. 

\------

Clarke, Octavia, and Raven cautiously enter the Brooksfield Hotel at a few minutes past 7. Raven was not officially supposed to be part of the greeting committee but her ‘I’ll be damned if I let you get arrested without me!’ had settled the matter. 

They eye the evening crowd somewhat nervously. It is an upstanding establishment, one of the few frequented by servants and middle class folk alike, and they are only somewhat out of place. Clarke scans the room, trying to identify the man they’re meeting, only to realize that she knows absolutely nothing about him. 

They become a little uneasy as an army officer starts making his way towards them. Was this a trap after all? Clarke’s mind races. They have no proof. She knows they have no right to make an arrest without proof. Wait, can army officers even make arrests? When she looks up he is towering over her, swarthy and handsome with piercing dark eyes. He is broad-shouldered and solidly built and Clarke realizes she would do anything not to be on the receiving end of his wrath.

Then all at once, he is cracking a small smile and extending his hand. ‘Clarke Griffin, I presume.’

She takes it, quickly regaining her composure. She does not know what she was expecting Lady Woolcott’s cousin to look like but this hulking, congenial man bears little resemblance to the lithe, cold elegance she witnessed this morning.

‘Lincoln Gray,’ he introduces himself. ‘I have been a friend of Lexa’s, Lady Woolcott’s that is, since we were children. And these must be your friends.’

Clarke introduces Raven and Octavia, noticing a slight twinkle in Octavia’s eye when he gives her a charming smile. How could someone as dry and controlled as Lady Woolcott have such an easy-going friend?

‘You said friend,’ Clarke says, ‘but I thought we were meeting her cousin.’

‘You are. Lucius is just over there,’ he replies motioning to a booth in the back. 

They follow him there, where a slim man in a tailored suit awaits. She can see the resemblance now; the same high cheekbones and strong jaw, bright, calculating eyes behind his spectacles. His long, wavy hair is tied in a loose ponytail at the back of his neck. His manner is polite if a little stiff, perhaps the thing he has most in common with his cousin. 

Lincoln introduces him as Lucius Wood, and he insists on referring to them all by their last names, which Raven and Octavia find amusing.

‘So, Miss Griffin,’ he asks, not quite meeting her eyes, ‘how long have you been involved in suffragist activities?’

The use of the word ‘suffragist’ instantly wins him a few points. 

‘About five years,’ she replies, ‘Octavia and I. Raven joined us about a year later.’

I see,' he replies after a pause. 'And what are your main activities?'

'Hey, Lucius,' Lincoln interjects with a hand on his shoulder, 'how about we get our orders in before you begin interrogating our lovely guests?'

'Why of course,' Lucius replies in his low, high-bred voice, obviously flustered at being called out by his friend. 'My manners are appalling. What will you have ladies?' he adds hurriedly.

The girls are quick to refuse, only to give in when Lucius and Lincoln insist that they've done them a favor. Once they've settled on the specials, Lucius and Lincoln make their way to the bar to order, giving the friends time to confer quickly.

'What do you think?' Clarke asks in a low voice, though the chances of anyone hearing her over the dinner-hour din are slim to none.

'Oh, I think he's a rather fine specimen!' Octavia purrs, sizing Lincoln up from her vantage point.

Both Clarke and Raven are taken aback at Octavia's comment.

'You've been spending far too much time with Raven,' Clarke groans. 

Raven beams proudly at the accusation.

'I mean the cousin obviously,' Clarke continues.

'Mmh, not my type,' Raven pronounces. 'He scares way too easily. Can't even look you in the eye. Can you imagine him trying to keep up with me?'

Clark rolls her eyes dramatically. 

'His sexual prowess is not what's in question here,' she says exasperated. 'Do you think he could help us?'

'Hard to say,' Octavia replies growing serious. 'He'll have fierce opponents in the House of Commons. Not sure if he's made of the right stuff to take them on.

'Mmh. He seems sincere though,' Clarke adds. 'We do need all the help we can get. I guess we'll just have to see what he can-'

She's cut off by Lincoln and Lucius returning with drinks which they pass around. Once they are settled, Lucius wastes no time.

'So, Miss Griffin, you were going to tell me about your activities.'

The next hour is spent with an in-depth description of their involvement in the fight for women's suffrage. Lucius is focused and intent, nodding after new information is revealed as if archiving it. His questions are relevant and intelligent and the girls' initial hesitation slowly begins to dissipate as he alludes to how this information can be used to promote their cause. There is a steely determination behind his shy and awkward demeanor which gives them hope that he may indeed be able to do something for them.

Once the meal is over and he's asked just about every question he can imagine there is a lull in the conversation, heavy with the decision that lies before them. Clarke looks first at Octavia, then Raven, receiving slight signs of approval from both. 

‘Well then,’ she announces, ‘I think all that’s left is for us to invite you to one of our meetings.’

Lucius’s face lights up at the news and he looks Clarke in the eyes for the first time that evening. There is a flash of nervous energy in them, passion almost. Clarke is a little taken aback, but heartened at the sight. Maybe he is a match for the wolves in parliament after all.

‘And you’re invited as well of course,’ Raven adds to Lincoln with a poorly concealed smirk in Octavia’s direction, earning her a sharp kick to her good leg.

‘It would be my pleasure to attend,’ Lincoln replies with a smile that attests obliviousness, but the glimmer in his eyes shows he’s no fool.

They quickly arrange a meeting place for two days away and part at the entrance to the hotel.   
There is an air of excitement as the three friends walk home. 

‘It’s happening, Clarke,’ Raven whispers breathlessly. ‘It’s really fucking happening!’

Clarke laughs and shakes her head. 

‘Too soon to tell.’

But hope is growing inside her as well, fueled by a glimpse of fiery passion the color of emeralds. This just might work.

\-------

Lexa is quiet as she moves through their London estate. She can hear her husband rustling papers and clearing his throat upstairs and would rather not interact with him if she can help it. She secures the volume she wanted and hurries in the semi-darkness towards the staircase. Too late she remembers the treacherous wooden step, third from the bottom, which creaks loudly announcing her presence.

‘Alexandra? Is that you?’ comes the jolting sound of his deep voice.

Lexa sighs, cursing herself inwardly.

‘Yes, Theodore. I’m just heading to bed,’ she replies, masterfully keeping the annoyance from her voice.

‘Come here a minute, would you?’ 

Lexa rolls her eyes and heads up the stairs, running her fingers quickly through her hair, teasing the curls into place. 

‘Yes?’

‘Where were you this evening?’ he asks, furrowing his brows.

‘Lady Anna had a bridge tournament. I couldn’t very well get out of it after she saw me at dinner the other night,’ she replies with a bored sigh.

‘Very well,’ he answers with a dismissive wave of his hand. ‘Lord Mullburry has asked me to Bath tomorrow. Dreadfully dull fellow but you know I need his support in the House so there’s really no choice. I was thinking you should come with me. He’s always charmed by you and I’d get out of there sooner than if I go without you.’

‘Of course,’ she replies neutrally. ‘But I can’t leave tomorrow. There is a christening for the Lancaster’s boy and it would look bad not to make an appearance.’

‘Right, right. Well, you take the car and join us for the weekend then. I’ll not be able to stand him much longer than that.’

She looks at him, face red from the whisky, sweat gathering on his forehead above his beady conniving eyes. Wondering just who will have trouble standing whom.

‘I’ll be there,’ she replies simply. ‘Goodnight.’

‘Night,’ he grunts back, turning back to her papers.

Lexa turns, letting out a long breath as her shoulders sag, and heads toward her chambers.


	4. Chapter 4

Clarke pauses, dress poised to go over her head. The silence of the pharmacy is a little unnerving, devoid of Mr. Davies’s familiar bustling about, tinkering with the orders and medical instruments. Clarke pulls the dress on and hurries downstairs. 

Just as she suspected, the shop is empty. There is evidence that Mr. Davies started filling out prescriptions but seems to have been interrupted. Clarke moves to the examination room at the back and then into the tiny kitchen. Nothing. Returning to the shop to search for some clue to explain Mr. Davies absence, her eyes are drawn to a flash of movement outside the window. She rushes to the door.

Davies is standing, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, scrub brush in hand, ferociously attacking the paint on the window. Clarke watches, stunned as he scrubs at the ‘t’ in ‘…trol yor kunts’. She looks at his face, trying to gauge his reaction. This will be bad for business for sure. Will he kick her to the curb? His features are set, determined. Without a word Clarke takes her own brush and starts working quickly at the other end of the crude message.

They work silently side-by-side. Clarke grips her brush and scrubs hard, channeling the tension and anger she feels into the frantic movements of her arm. Davies always preferred her to stay away from politics, to focus on her medical career. He had only grudgingly humored her activities up till now. Was this the last straw? 

Damn those illiterate assholes! Clarke feels the anger growing in her chest, burning and alive and fighting for release, transforming into something hard and determined to show them she won’t be stopped.

‘I was thinking you could assist me with the patients this afternoon.’

His voice is low and neutral, but Clarke jumps at the interruption of her impassioned inner monologue. She turns to face him, eyes searching his, trying to gauge if this has changed anything. 

‘There aren’t many deliveries today and you do need to work on your sutures,’ he adds.

She nods. A nod which says everything she feels; thank you for understanding, for not blaming me, for not asking me not to partake in this fight that has come to live inside me, for sparing me the waring ofdangers that have become all too apparent. He gives her a small nod in return and they turn back to their work. Clarke notices the tension in her arm is a little lighter. 

\-------

Clarke is tidying the exam room when Octavia and Raven stop by after work. A gaping abdominal wound, a gash to the lower leg and several cases of the common cold which she saw to on her own under Davies’s supervision have improved her mood considerably. Her friends however are looking a little worse for the wear.

‘Some assholes have been talking shit to my boss,’ Octavia spits out. ‘He didn’t fire me yet, but they switched up my duties. Instead of sorting and delivering I get waste disposal. Fucking magnificent.’

‘I was treated a little shittier than usual as well, lots of mumbled insults,’ Raven adds. ‘Bit low on the creativity though. I thought of giving their dull asses some suggestions.’

A tight smile breaks on Clarke’s lips momentarily before she tells them how the pharmacy was also defaced.

‘Bastards,’ Raven spits out. ‘Still, doesn’t seem like a coincidence, all three of us being targeted at the same time. Someone is getting wise of our activities. We’ll need to be careful.’

‘I was thinking,’ Clarke says, ‘that it might be better if someone else takes Lincoln and Lucius to the meeting tonight, to avoid suspicion.’

‘I’ll tell my brother to,’ Octavia offers. ‘He’s back today and he can stop and meet them on the way. Besides, he has the benefit of being a man which means he can walk around at night without attracting undue attention.’

\-------

The turnout for the meeting is good. Clarke feels her courage build as the room pulses with the eager determination of the other activists. At times like these, surrounded by so many who also want change, it almost seems like they have a shot. 

The room being used today is small and somewhat cramped, the storage of a local bakery. The low ceiling and musty air are somewhat made up for by the multiple exists and abundance of flour sacks which serve as makeshift seats. Why a storage room has multiple exits has long been the inspiration for a myriad of rumors regarding its previous use. The most popular includes something about a brothel whose multiple exits were a unique selling point to married customers.

Finn is in a corner talking to Raven and a few others. He catches her eye and they both nod in greeting. She tries to remember why he thinks people can be reasoned with. After scrubbing hate messages off the store front a part of her wants to side with Bellamy, wants to strike back, do something memorable to make them realize that they’re there and strong and not going away. It’s hard to know what’s right, what’s too much, not enough, what will help or hurt their cause.

She doesn’t realize how tense she’s been until she sees Bellamy enter the room with Lincoln and Lucius in tow. She lets out a shaky sigh of relief and feels her shoulders relax. The room grows quiet when they arrive. It is the only point of discussion today and Lucius will have all the time he needs to present his plan. 

Clarke steps into the space that has been cleared at the front and gives a small introduction, explaining that Lucius Wood is a respected member of parliament who has been fighting for their cause for months and would like to bridge the gap between their efforts and his in order to better represent them. Her speech is inspired and a ripple of hope passes through the crowd. This is different from their usual plans of pamphleting and rallies, a chance to have a voice on the inside. 

After the introduction, Clarke looks over to where Lucius is standing and motions him forward. She’s a little unsure of how he’ll handle himself after witnessing his somewhat hesitant interaction at the inn. But she offers him a supportive smile and tells herself that a speaker in the House of Commons must know his way around a crowd. 

All eyes are on him as he steps to the front. Clarke watches as his slim figure seems to grow in stature as he enters the clearing, exuding an authority that captures the room. His steps are sure and confident, shoulders squared, eyes bright with determined energy that contrasts his collected aura. She listens as he lays out his plan, explaining the technicalities of getting a Bill passed in Parliament. He somehow manages to speak about politics with such passion that you can’t help but share his hope. He is all at once a man born to lead, to shake, to command, and yet approachable, personable, void of any condescension. 

He praises their efforts, extoling the attention they have drawn to the cause and the restraint they have exercised in keeping their activities civil, and all at once she feels pride in what they have done, the sting of this morning’s taunts forgotten. He asks questions, nodding thoughtfully, intelligent eyes absorbing information. Deep green eyes. Alexandra’s eyes. Seeing him in action she cannot help remembering the magnetism of Lady Woolcott’s presence. It seems to run in the family.

Suddenly there is a loud banging on the door; sharp, firm raps, the predetermined code, but with a sense of urgency in them. Clarke feels a thrill of danger run through her spine as Raven hurries to the door.

‘Constables‘ve been tipped off. They’re minutes away.’

The whispered words ring across the tense silence of the room. 

‘Scatter!’ Clarke commands and the room jumps into action, everyone making for their preplanned escape routes. 

She catches Lucius’s eye and there is a flicker of fear that is swiftly buried beneath stoic determination. She moves quickly towards him, eyes scanning the flurry of movement for Octavia. She finds her at the door and gestures at Lincoln. Octavia nods and she turns to Lucius. 

‘Come,’ she breathes taking his hand, ‘I’ll get us out.’

A quick look passes between him and Lincoln. But seeing his friend taken care of he turns and allows Clarke to pull him into the street, yanking her cloak over her hair as she walks. Her grip is firm as she hurries through the dizzying maze of back alleys. Lucius’s breaths are fast and uneven behind her but he keeps pace and after a few minutes Clarke slows and releases his hand.

‘Sorry about that. It happens sometimes,’ she explains quickly. ‘We’ll have a new meeting place for next week.’ 

He nods, visibly relaxing as his breath evens out. 

‘That was…educational,’ he says, and Clarke catches a faint twinkle in his eye before he looks away awkwardly. 

They walk on in silence, the distance settling between them. Clarke feels slightly uncomfortable, like she did at their first meeting. She wonders if Lucius is one of those people who only feels at ease in front of crowds and disconcerted in more personal settings. 

Clarke gasps suddenly, shaken from her musings as she’s gripped roughly by the hips and pushed against the alley wall. She’s even more surprised when she recognizes the rough, broken breaths of her aggressor and looks up just in time to recognize Lucius’s face before his lips are on hers. 

It’s surprisingly light, barely a wisp of a kiss; the gentleness of full, soft lips contrast the hard fingers pressing into her hips. For a moment, her mind is suspended and she finds herself lost in sensations, unconsciously leaning forward, pressing into the kiss instead of away; chasing the thrill she feels at the brush of those lips, the static in the air between her mouth and his. She feels her stomach swoop near the pressure of his thumbs, a tight sort of tingling in her chest.

‘Hey, you two!’

The voice is hard, authoritative. Clarke jerks back, eyes flying open. She turns to see two constables heading down the alley towards them.

‘This is indecent behavior. Get off the streets before I take you down to the station for disorderly conduct.’

‘Apologies, officer,’ Lucius replies smoothly, affecting just the right mix of contrition and boyish pride. ‘I can’t seem to help myself sometimes.’ 

A rueful smile, inviting the constables to empathize with him.

‘We’re heading home now.’

The policeman’s eyes flick from him to Clarke, who offers a bashful smile of her own. 

‘Yes well,’ he replies gruffly, ‘off you go. See that you wait until you’re in private. This is an upstanding neighborhood.’

‘Will do, sir,’ Lucius replies, and they continue walking briskly away from the constables.

‘I’m sorry about that,’ Lucius whispers, giving Clarke a slight, sideways glance. ‘I saw them coming and I thought it was the best way to avoid suspicion.’

Clarke swallows, nodding slightly. 

‘Quick thinking. It definitely got us out of answering uncomfortable questions.’

‘I didn’t mean to…’ Lucius hesitates, turning to meet her eyes. ‘I don’t want you to think…I would never presume to…I would never take advantage of you. It was purely a safety precaution,’ he rattles off in a mix of spurts and stutters.

Clarke laughs, raising an eyebrow, more than a little amused at his clumsiness.

‘Safety precaution? Well I have to say that one’s new.’

There’s a look of mortification on Lucius’s face.

‘Relax, Mr. Woods. I could never think you capable of anything other than the most upstanding behavior.’ 

She pauses until he meets her eye. 

‘We’re ok.’

Lucius offers her a hesitant smile and they continue, enveloped by a heavy, awkward silence. They’re relieved to find Octavia and Lincoln casually slouched against the tavern wall waiting for them. They switch companions quickly and say their goodbyes.

\-------

Clarke lies in bed, far too awake to consider sleeping. It’s been a full day, she tells herself, her body just needs time to calm down. There was the rush of work, the anticipation of the meeting, the excitement of Lucius and Lincoln’s visit, the run from the cops. But try as she might to embrace denial, her mind keeps settling on one moment. 

The kiss.

There is the surprise of it all, discovering the remarkable strength hidden in the wiry frame of Lucius Woods, the momentary panic of not knowing who her assailant was, the confusion of seeing that it was her awkward, mild-mannered protégé, the speed of his lips meeting hers before the tumult of thoughts could be processed. The contrast too, the firm grip of slender, delicate hands, the daunting nearness of his presence pressing her into the rough, cold wall behind her. And the lips, soft, reverent, as if the barest touch might be too much.

Only after turning it over in her mind repeatedly does she recall the way his eyes, dark and heavy in the shadows, had searched hers for an instant before their lips met, had remained closed for a few seconds after as if in a trance despite the constables’ yelling. 

Clarke’s fingers run up and down her stomach absently as she relives it. She’s kissed before. A couple times besides the Finn fiasco. In fact, by those standards this would barely count as a kiss. But there was something in this one she can’t quite put her finger on, a sort of quivering emotion that grips and flutters low in her stomach. She laughs and shakes her head, chalking it up to the excitement of the evening. 

She doesn’t even like Lucius exactly. The picture of the awkward, subdued, delicate gentleman, always playing by the book and frowning on displays of emotion, isn’t quite her type. But then there’s the man she saw at the meeting, the one who radiated passion and hope that drew others in. The man who kissed with a mix of confidence and gentleness that made her heart hammer. Yes. There was an unmistakable allure to that. 

Maybe that’s what it is. She hasn’t figured him out yet which is why he’s on her mind. Once she solves the enigma Lucius Woods will cease to hold any interest for her. Right? It must be. 

She nods her head to show how convinced she is of her own arguments.

Still the memory of soft, red lips brushing hers is the last thing she is aware of before falling asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alas, due to prior engagements Lady Woolcott was unable to join us this chapter. But she has promised to make up for it in the next one.


	5. Chapter 5

Lexa spends an equally sleepless night, although her thoughts are further away; chocolate brown eyes, wild curly hair, a smile that simultaneously made her chest tighten and expand; a haunting past she has fought to push down as far she could. It had almost been working in recent years, her dreams of the olive-skinned, sprightly youth becoming less frequent. But she’s close tonight and Lexa finds herself oddly unwilling to ward her memories off. 

It had been good. She hadn’t realized just how good until many years had passed with nothing to compare it to. But the pain was also incomparable, it had reached in and compressed her heart, squeezing until her dwindling hope of happiness had given way to sensible plans of survival. Surely a happiness like that, a pain like that, could only happen once, could only be borne once. 

It had been months since she’d missed her, months of accepting the dull monotony of her life, of shallow reactions to mundane happenings that could scarcely be considered feelings. But tonight she feels, a thrill both familiar and novel. It doesn’t last. The budding hope that fills her chest is followed by a sharp stab of pain. Pavlov would be proud. She remembers why she she’s steeled herself against feeling, clinging to the safety of rationality. 

Love is weakness. Pain corrodes everything. There is no place for them in her future, not if she hopes to be of any use. But even as she reaffirms her resolutions a silent, unbidden tear traces its way down her face. She bites her lip and just this once lets them flow. Sometimes the mask is just too heavy at night. Putting it aside for a moment might give her the strength to take it up again when morning dawns.

\-------

Clarke feels oddly spry considering she doesn’t remember sleeping at all during the night. She putters around the exam room, readying everything for the first patient, hoping she’ll get a chance to work directly with them again today. 

Davies stops in the doorway, raising his eyebrow inquisitively at her.

‘Good evening, Miss Griffin?’ he asks with the straightest face he can muster.

Clarke looks up, surprised. 

‘Oh it was interesting enough,’ she replies with barely the hint of a smile. 

He grins benevolently, the way her father used to when she’d come home beaming with pleasure after getting up to some bit of mischief or another. He had never minded her questionable choices in entertainment as long as she wasn’t in danger.

‘We received a telegram from Lady Woolcott this morning,’ he says. ‘She’s going away and has requested an early refill.’

Clarke eyes the medical instruments a little disappointedly. There go her plans of spending the day advancing her medical career. But she can’t deny the little thrill that courses through her at the thought of seeing Lady Woolcott again, despite the anger she felt at her insistence on self-preservation. 

Images of her marmorean jawline and piercing eyes come to her mind unbidden; somehow leading into sensory recollections. A firm grip. Full lips against hers. The whisper of a kiss.

Clarke shakes her head, trying to dislodge the strange association. Perhaps she’s more tired than she thought.

‘When does she need it by?’ she asks Davies.

‘This morning. Apparently, she’s set to leave after lunch.’

Clarke nods and fetches her coat. 

\-------

She is ushered into Lady Woolcott’s study without preamble. Lady Woolcott rises swiftly from her desk and moves to greet her. 

‘Thank you, Miss Griffin. Yours is quickly becoming the most reliable drugstore in town.’

There’s not quite a smile, but something seems different about Lady Woolcott this morning. She’s less imposing. Almost, dare Clarke imagine, tentative. She takes the package from Clarke and instead of judiciously examining the contents as she usually does, she fiddles with it absently.

‘I’m sorry,’ Clarke offers after a pause, ‘about what I said last time. I had no right, really. I don’t even know you. And Lucius, Mr. Wood, seems pretty amazing. I have the feeling he could really be useful to us. And it’s thanks to you so,’ she stops, realizing she’s been rambling. 

‘Don’t be,’ Lexa replies simply, drawing a quizzical glance from Clarke. ‘Sorry,’ she continues. 

‘I see why you said the things you said, why you would feel that way. My position may not make sense to you, but I do what I can. And your passion for your cause, that’s what makes you,’ a weak smile pulls at her lips, ‘well you.’

Clarke feels a flush of pleasure at the compliment. As if being her, being Clarke Griffin is something special, something rare, better explained by a pronoun than overused adjectives.

She searches Lady Woolcott’s eyes for a moment, drawn in by the flicker of vulnerability she’s never seen her display. She nods, hoping that the nod somehow says ‘I might not understand your reasoning, but I do believe you’re doing what you feel is right.’

Lexa nods back and turns to place the package on her desk. 

‘You like my cousin then,’ she asks, back turned.

Clarke hesitates a moment, feeling the blood rush to her cheeks as she does.

‘I…he seems very capable, passionate. When he talks I can feel my hope returning. He’s gifted,’ she trails off, blushing harder when she catches the intensity of Lexa’s sideways glance.

Clarke looks down quickly, trying to hide her traitorous cheeks. 

‘Has he said anything? About the meeting, I mean?’ she adds hurriedly when the first questions strikes her as an inquiry into his romantic interests.

‘I haven’t spoken to him yet,’ Lexa replies neutrally.

If she’s noticed anything odd about Clarke’s behavior she doesn’t let on. Her gaze contains the same subdued curiosity as always and she may as well be inscrutable. Something Clarke definitely does not feel right now. She feels painfully exposed and turns to avoid further scrutiny. Her eyes wander the room, growing wide as they catch sight of the object on the coffee table.

‘Oh my god, is that a folding Brownie camera?’ she asks, rushing over for closer inspection. 

‘It is,’ Lexa says, lips twitching in amusement at Clarke’s excitement. ‘It arrived today. I was going to test it before leaving.’

‘Oh, could I, I mean, if you don’t mind, can I watch?’ Clarke asks. ‘A friend of mine at the newspaper has a box camera and he lets me use it sometimes, but I’ve never seen one of these before.’ 

She looks anxiously at Lady Woolcott, feeling a little silly for her outburst.

‘I’d love some company,’ Lexa replies, unconscious of how the smile has spread across her face.

She moves to the table and picks up the camera.

‘We’ll need to start by putting the film in. I haven’t loaded it yet.’

Clarke watches enraptured as her deft fingers find the hidden buttons on the side and open the back. She memorizes Lexa’s movements as she clicks the spool of film into place and pulls it across the lens, moving slowly enough for Clarke to follow and answering her questions.

‘Are you interested in photography?’ Lexa asks, turning to her and almost jerking back a little when she realizes how close they are.

‘Yes,’ Clarke replies enthusiastically. ‘Well, art in general. I draw. Paint sometimes too, when I can get my hands on supplies. There’s just something about immortalizing a moment’s beauty, you know.’

‘Spoken like a true artist,’ Lexa replies, and Clarke could swear there’s teasing in her tone.

Once the film is in place Lexa shows her how to use the new viewfinder and modify shutter speed and aperture, explaining their effects on light and sharpness of the image.

‘Though I have to admit,’ she confesses with a small chuckle, ‘I don’t know much about what this will actually do beyond what was contained in the monologue delivered by the salesman this morning.’

‘Well, we can always experiment for ourselves,’ Clarke suggests, eyes sparkling.

‘That’s the idea,’ Lexa replies, handing her the camera.

Clarke shoots her a questioning glance and Lexa raises her eyebrows encouragingly.

‘I’d be interested in your opinion on it, Clarke.’

Clarke feels a flutter at the sound of her name in Lady Woolcott’s voice. It’s intimate somehow, spoken like a secret, like a privilege or a prayer. She makes it her own, a different thing entirely from the ‘Clarke’ used by everyone else.

Clarke takes the camera, relishing in the grip and feel of it. She puts her eye to the viewfinder, pointing it at different parts of the room, visualizing them as pictures, as canvases, as drawings. Lexa stands quietly to the side, watching. 

‘Feel free to take pictures anytime.’ 

Clarke jerks a little, pulled from imagining the images.

‘Well, I need a subject,’ she replies. 

‘If my lady would be so kind,’ she continues, affecting a professional tone as she gestures towards an armchair. 

A small smile pulls at Lexa’s lips again as she takes the seat indicated, casting her eyes down as her cheeks turn slightly pink under Clarke’s appraisal. Clarke fiddles with the dials before turning her full attention to Lady Woolcott. She’s been itching to capture her since she first caught a glimpse of her veiled face in the car, and the camera allows her every excuse to look. And look she does. 

Lady Woolcott is already wearing her travel clothes, a long, forest green skirt and matching coat. Her pose is one of affected relaxation, appropriate for tea and luncheons; back straight, long delicate fingers resting in her lap, streaks of light dancing through the sideways sweep of her hair. Clarke’s eyes travel along the slope of her stately shoulders, up the long, regal neck, watching her chest rise and fall with her breaths. She traces down her handsome jawline to the full, luscious lips. _They must run in the family._ A small shiver runs through her at the unbidden memory. Lexa’s eyes are still low, flicking around the room, not meeting the camera directly.

‘You’re beautiful,’ Clarke whispers, moving to look at her without the obstructing view of the camera. 

It’s more like a thought that was a little too loud not to be spoken, but it lingers, heavy in the silence of the room. 

Lady Woolcott’s eyes instantly flicker up to meet hers, dark and searching, as if probing for the answer to an unknown question. She looks young then, a girl pushed into the role of a lady before her time. A small smile threatens to break on her lips but she makes no move to answer.

Clarke lowers her eye to peer through the viewfinder and presses the button. The flash startles them both a little, and they chuckle nervously as Clarke winds the film. 

‘Give me something else,’ she says, and Lady Woolcott tilts her head and fixes her with an imperious stare. She is all majestic authority, more queen or warrior than lady, a look that could make legions kneel. Clarke clicks again, immortalizing the moment. 

‘Alexandra,’ she says, and Lexa’s head snaps up at the sound of her given name, ‘defender of men,’ she continues, voice neutral as she adjusts the angle. ‘Although the Myceneans also used it as a variation of Cassandra, to excel or shine. The Trojan princess who spurned the god Apollo.’

Lexa smiles, full and beautiful this time. ‘Oh I’d still refuse him if he showed up nowadays,’ and Clarke laughs as she snaps another picture of the haughty temptress.

‘Lexa,’ she says quietly. ‘My friends call me Lexa.’ 

The name seems to hang in the space between them like an invitation, a rite of passage, a rare permission.

‘Lexa,’ Clarke agrees, sealing the unspoken agreement. 

The knock on the door makes them both jump, shatters something in the air. 

‘Come,’ Lexa calls rising, and Clarke unconsciously straightens and steps back.

Gustus enters, pausing to give Clarke a quizzical glance before turning to his mistress.

‘The car is ready, my lady. We should leave soon if we are to reach Bath before nightfall.’

‘Very well, Gustus, I am ready. See to it that the letters on my desk are posted today.’

‘Yes, my lady,’ he replies, but lingers at the door, eyeing Clarke with a hint of impatience.

‘Oh, yes,’ Clarke exclaims, snapping out of her reverie, ‘I’ll be going too. I hope everything is to your liking Lady Woolcott.’

‘I’m sure it will be,’ she replies, and Clarke can’t help thinking she’s referring to the pictures rather than the pills.

Hastily Clarke sets the camera down. She searches for something to say, something to prolong the visit, some justification for her continued presence. But the butler’s thinly-veiled glare seems to chase all ideas from her mind. 

She looks up when Lexa opens her mouth, only to close it again without saying a word. She meets her eye and Clarke can’t tell if she’s projecting or if Lexa too seems to be searching for a reason to ask her to stay.

‘Goodbye, Clarke,’ she says at last, after what couldn’t have been more than a few moments.

‘Safe travels, my lady,’ Clarke replies in resignation and follows Gustus out of the house.

\--------

It had been a peaceful morning spent in her study while Mary packed for the trip. She had been writing letters, some with the fine, delicate strokes of her right hand, others in the slanted, uneven scrawl of her left. She had been pleased with her efficiency in wrapping everything up before her trip. 

That was until Clarke was shown in, all wild hair and cheeks flushed from the cold. She seemed…happy almost, and the sight of her had shaken her early-morning resolve and brought the churning emotions of the night before rushing back. 

She spies the package Clarke brought, the ruse for seeing her before leaving. She needs help sleeping sometimes, sure, but at this rate she will have enough pills to last several lifetimes. She shakes her head, kicking herself for her childishness. But it couldn’t really be helped.

She leans back in her seat and watches the landscape blur past without seeing it. Thinking. Thinking of Clarke. The way she moves through life as if she can will anything into reality by stubbornness alone. The way she can’t help thinking the same when they’re together, despite her years mastering the art of pragmatism. The way her skin had prickled at their nearness, burned at her studious scrutiny. _You’re beautiful._ The tightening of her stomach muscles.

Alive.

Clarke Griffin made her feel alive. 

Just when she had become comfortable with simply existing, with calculated actions and acceptable risks and social masks. 

She sighs and presses the back of her head into the seat. She can’t afford to feel alive. It’s too real. And real gets overwhelming. Real makes it harder to think with her head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit more Lexa, as promised. :)


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for your kudos and comments. I really love reading them! :)

Things have settled back to their normal routine, that is if one can consider rallies, pamphleting and secret meetings while avoiding detection normal. Clarke hasn’t seen Lucius at all since their awkward parting the night of the meeting. Lincoln explained that he’s been busy with other responsibilities as an MP but is still as devoted to their cause as ever. It’s a perfectly plausible reason. 

Still, Clarke can’t help the nagging thought in the corner of her mind. Is he avoiding something? Danger? Her?

They also haven’t received any orders from Lady Woolcott (Lexa, Clarke thinks to herself with a small smile) in weeks, but Clarke chalks that up to the fact that she’s simply not in town. There’s no worry when she thinks of Lexa. In fact, there’s a kind of strange warmth and what one could almost be tempted to call nostalgia. But that would be silly. You can’t miss someone you barely know. 

Lincoln has become a kind of go-between between them and Lucius, showing up for most meetings and popping in at other times when Clarke, Octavia and Raven are together. She’s found an exceptionally kind and gentle man beneath the powerful, hardened physique and can’t help noticing that Octavia is around less and less when Lincoln isn’t present. 

‘You’re completely smitten!’ Raven announces one day, catching how Octavia stares longingly after him as he leaves.

‘Well, that makes sense, nitwit, considering we’re together,’ she replies unfazed.

‘What?’ Clarke and Raven exclaim in unison. ‘He’s proposed.’

‘Not yet,’ Octavia says waving her hand in the air dismissively as if marriage were some trifle hardly worth being bothered with, ‘but I suppose it’s only a matter of time.’

‘God, O, how could you not tell us? Has he said anything?’ Clarke demands, leaning forward in her seat.

Octavia shrugs. ‘We haven’t talked about it, but it doesn’t really matter. We…we belong to each other. Once you know that the rest is just for formality’s sake.’

Clarke and Raven look at each other speechlessly. This would be the perfect opportunity for a little ribbing, but Octavia’s matter-of-fact statement left little room for that. It makes them feel a little strange, like outsiders, a little silly for never experiencing the kind of certainty that Octavia takes for granted.

They’re still thinking of something to say when Bellamy bursts into the room. 

‘Have you heard?’

‘That your sister is grossly in love and thinks she’s found her soulmate or some other equally retch-worthy horseshit?’ Raven asks with a bored lift of her eyebrows.

‘No,’ Bellamy replies, casting Octavia a quizzical glance before hurrying on. ‘It’s Finn. Well, his father. There’s been an accident in the factory.’

All three of them leap up and head for the door. 

‘What happened? Is he ok?’ Clarke asks.

‘I heard it’s pretty bad. Finn’s with him at the hospital now.’

They make their way quickly towards the hospital in the relative emptiness of the streets. Clarke quizzes Bellamy about the accident, trying to piece things together. Something about rust, pressurization gone wrong, being pinned under the weight of several tons. Raven takes over, grilling him on the kind of machine, how exactly that much pressure was allowed to build up, where he was when it burst. But Bellamy doesn’t have too much additional info, the technical stuff going right over his head and Clarke tunes them out.

They bang through the hospital doors, descending on the nurse to find out where Mr. Collins is being treated and when they can see them. She is belligerent and unhelpful, perversely apathetic in the face of their desperation. Raven is unleashing a rather creative string of insults when a tuneless voice interrupts.

‘There’s nothing to see. He looks just like he did before, only paralyzed. Can’t move a muscle from the neck down.’

The room is plunged into silence as all five turn to see Finn standing there, a vague, befuddled look on his face. 

‘Finn, we…’ Clarke steps forward, but it’s not just a few feet that separate them. It’s as if the air around him is impenetrable. 

‘He was crushed. Doctors say the damage was done before he got here. When they lifted the tube off. It was holding things in place somehow, as well as crushing them.’

His voice is hollow, detached. He recites the news as if it had no personal impact on him. Raven crosses the room quickly, places a hand on his arm. Fingers pressing into his forearm, trying to ground him, to reach him, to find some emotion in his glassy eyes. 

Clarke hangs back, watching. Remembering the quiet shock that shrouded the turmoil when she heard of her own father’s accident. It didn’t matter what people said, how they wished it had been different, how they loved to repeat how great her father had been. It made it worse. Having to listen, to respond, being expected to do something when nothing worked. She’s not going to add to his burden by speaking. 

He turns back to Raven and the others who had been speaking, words lost in the deafening bubble of shock. His eyes flash and there is finally an emotion in them; anger. 

‘That bastard,’ he says, voice changing to a dangerous whisper. ‘He left him there, almost an hour. Didn’t want to damage the tube in moving it. He wanted to save his fucking tube while my father was being crushed. Because a fucking machine is worth more than a man’s life, more than ten of our lives.’

His knuckles turn pale white from the clench of his fist. Raven covers them with her own hand, adding her pressure to his. 

‘They think they can do as they please without answering to anyone. It’s about time someone showed them different.’

His gaze is fixed on Clarke, burning with a kind of pain that feels too big to hold in, that needs to hurt back, redistribute. He shrugs Raven off and steps into the street. 

\-------

Clarke slips quietly into the meeting room and spies Finn slouching against a wall. It’s been more than a week since his father’s accident and he hasn’t been around much since. Clarke can only imagine that the family dynamics are much changed and Finn has less time to spare. He’s been a bit cold and dismissive and she imagines he just wants to be alone. 

‘Hey,’ she says, leaning against the wall next to him.

‘Hey,’ he replies, eyes glued to the floor.

‘I know you’re drowned in people trying to fix it in a million overtried ways. None of that ever worked for me. But if you do think of something you need, I’m here.’

She leans against his shoulder in a gesture of camaraderie.

‘Thanks,’ he replies, eyes finally meeting hers.

They hold the gaze for a minute before looking away. Finn moves to join a group presided over by Bellamy and Clarke can only guess at the topic of discussion.

The meeting begins with the staple items: what areas of the city to avoid, the content of new pamphlets, news on a few new members. There is a slight buzz when mention is made of some who have joined the suffragettes and are now using bricks and fists to make themselves heard. The ripple is not all together disapproving and the shift is palpable. She’s not surprised to see Raven nod slightly in approval, she’s always been a bit of a hothead, arguing that to fight men you have to use violence or they won’t understand. 

Her eyes find Finn. He’s quiet, unmoving, but there’s a twitch in his face, a hardness that wasn’t there before. Lord Manderly, or the bastard responsible for Mr. Collins’s delayed medical attention, is one of their most vehement opponents. She wonders if his faith in humanity still extends to the likes of him.

The speaker falls silent as there is a knock on the door. The assembly holds their breath in unison as the sharp raps play out. Two fast, one slow, a pause followed by the rat tat-tat of the final three. A unanimous exhale washes through the room as Monroe moves to the door. 

Lucius Wood steps through to small gasps and murmurs of surprise. He crosses to the front without hesitation. The speaker steps aside to give him the floor.

‘Hello, everyone. Apologies for my tardiness,’ he begins with a small smile, eyes scanning the room, ‘I had an appointment just before that was impossible to reschedule.’

Clarke feels something inside her simultaneously speed up and quieten in his presence. There’s a reassurance to having him here, a realignment of her sense of purpose, a quiet confidence that success is ultimately inevitable. But there’s a thrill of excitement too, anticipation, as if he were the final player they were awaiting before the important act could begin.

‘I have good news,’ he continues, voice easily echoing throughout the room. ‘In a month’s time I am scheduled to present a bill to the house of commons which, if approved, could be the first step in women’s voting becoming legal. One of the oppositions strongest arguments is that the vast majority of women do not want the vote. That they are content to occupy themselves with ‘women’s issues’ and leave the running of state to men.’

‘What if we proved otherwise? Collected signatures, showed them just how many women want their rights?’ Clarke calls from her place at the back.

Lucius turns in her direction meeting her eyes for a second before almost jolting away, focusing instead on her left shoulder.

‘That would substantially strengthen my argument,’ he replies with a smile. 

Clarke feels a buzz in the room. The people are with them, eager and awakened by a purpose, complacency displaced by a tangible goal. Lucius’s eyes roam the room, pleased at their reaction. Clarke notices him looking at the people next to her but when his eyes should meet hers she looks away again. It’s not so much that he doesn’t see her, more that he is hyper-aware of her exact location in the room and pointedly avoiding it. 

‘If we were able to show them hard evidence of women’s desire to vote there would be little they could say to refute it. The more we collect the better. I do not expect I will make it to the next meeting, but Lincoln can pass on the signatures to me. I will keep you updated on our progress through him.’ 

‘What about people who can’t write?’ 

Clarke’s question rings out, almost defiant, triumphant. He will have to look at her now.

He doesn’t.

His head turns in her general direction, but he fixes his gaze just a little beyond her.

‘Excellent question. They should be able to copy their name if you write it for them. If they still have a hard time you can write it and they can make a mark of their choosing next to it. It’ll still work to show that they are on our side.’

People nod in reply but Clarke feels a stab of frustration at his obvious avoidance. _Honestly, what is his problem?_

She’s still trying to muddle through his reasoning when she realizes the meeting has ended. She moves quickly through the room, trying to get to him. But Lincoln and Octavia intercept her.

‘Clarke, Lincoln and I were thinking. If we split people into groups and give each group a captain, we can each take on different parts of the city. You, me, Raven, Finn, Bell, what do you say?’

‘Huh?’ Clarke replies distractedly, trying to locate Lucius over the moving heads. 

‘For the signatures?’

‘Yeah. Sure. Great. I’ll be right back.’

She just manages to catch a glimpse of Lucius’s coat flapping as he slips out the back entrance. Elbowing her way through she reaches the door just as he disappears around a corner, collar turned up against the wind, against possible observers. 

She sets off after him, upping her pace as he hurries through a maze of alleys before reaching the main street. He hops into a carriage which pulled away smartly just as Clarke reached the curb. Muttering under her breath she looks around for a way of following. Providence seems to smile on her ill-prepared pursuit as she spies a bicycle leaning casually against the side of a bakery. Glancing up at the name so she’ll know where to return it she hops on the bike to continue her chase.

While in most cases a bicycle would be no match for the gait of two powerful horses, London traffic in the late afternoon is such that the carriage is constantly slowed and forced to wait while Clarke can zip recklessly between the sidewalk and the road, and somehow always manage to keep him in sight. After about 20 minutes the carriage turns into a quieter lane with only a smattering of automobiles and buggies. The empty street finally allows Lucius to gain the advantage and Clarke pedals fervently as she watches it turn out of sight. By the time she reaches the corner it is nowhere to be seen.

Cursing breathlessly, she pauses to determine what to do. He can’t be far. These roads are residential, they don’t lead anywhere. If he came here it has to be to stay. She gets back on her bike and rides slowly, peering up and down the side streets. After two disappointments she spots the carriage just pulling away from a house on the third street. She speeds up and reaches it in time to hear the front door closing. 

Climbing off her bike, she leans it against the rails and approaches the house. It is a large, tasteful town house, two-stores, wide windows. Nothing like the Woolcott mansion but by no means lacking in style. She takes the steps quickly, breathing hard, hoping to catch him in the entrance hall. She turns the handle and pushes through the door, stopping dead in her tracks at the sight of Lucius’s back at the foot of the stairs.

What exactly had she intended to do when she caught up? Confront him? Ask him why he was avoiding her? Make him admit to it? Only, now that she thought of it her proof that he had done such things was vague, subjective. It didn’t quite seem reason enough to chase a near-stranger across town and burst into his house uninvited. 

‘Lucius,’ she says, voice a little more hesitant and breathless than she intended.

Lucius sighs and turns slowly, only it wasn’t Lucius.

That is, the clothes were Lucius’s, a smart, tailored suit, impeccable shoes, hair pulled back neatly and fastened at the nape of the neck. But the moustache is gone and the spectacles are gripped in long delicate fingers rather than resting on the bridge of his nose. 

‘Lexa,’ she breathes in disbelief.

‘Hello, Clarke,’ comes the reply in a voice that was all Lexa.

Clarke takes another step into the room. 

‘You’re Lucius?’

‘Your powers of observation are exceptionally astute,’ Lexa replies, a small smile curling the corner of her mouth. Her shoulders drop a little, some of the stiffness leaving her posture.

Clarke smirks a little, half in amusement, half in surprise. Did Lexa really just make a joke?

‘I’m sorry for ignoring you at the meeting,’ she continues. ‘After our last encounters I was afraid it was only a matter of time before you put two-and-two together. It appears you were determined to make that sooner rather than later.’

She appraises Clarke, face flushed and shining from exertion, chest still heaving from the momentum that propelled her straight into Lexa’s secret despite her best efforts. Clarke is not one to be easily thwarted. The thought is accompanied by a twinge of pride in Lexa’s chest.

‘And this place?’ Clarke asks, looking around tastefully furnished room.

‘This is Lucius’s,’ Lexa replies. ‘As far as most people, including my husband, are concerned, Alexandra Woolcott and Lucius Woods are two separate people leading individual lives. Only a few know there is only one of us.’

‘Lincoln,’ Clarke says, it’s more statement than question.

Lexa nods.

‘Lincoln was my childhood friend, long before Lucius was born. Lucius is almost as much his creation as my own.’

Clarke nods, turning slightly, giving herself space to absorb it all. Her mind is racing, replaying all their encounters--thrills, expectation, confusion, frustration, awe, inspiration, mystery, calm--weaving them together into a cohesive story that captures the person in front of her. She stops suddenly. 

‘You kissed me,’ she blurts out, turning towards Lexa once again.

She regrets the observation as soon as the words leave her mouth. Lexa looks down, blushing fiercely. Clarke watches the crimson creep up her neck, tinge her ears. Lexa’s lips press together as she readies her reply.

‘It really was the best way out, Clarke,’ she says at last, green eyes meeting blue.

Clarke nods, seeing something new in her eyes, something vulnerable, almost hungry, something that brings the kiss to mind. The softness of the lips. The grip, Lexa’s grip she now realizes, fingers both pressing and holding back, not daring to grip too tightly. The tingling thrill rushing through her body, pushing her into the kiss, a wanting both new and old, abounding, awakened. Somehow, knowing it was Lexa and not Lucius makes it click into place, it feels complete now. Right.

The clock chimes loudly in the silence and Clarke realizes Lexa has been watching her. 

‘I must go,’ Lexa says. ‘I am expected at dinner.’

Clarke nods, once again unsure of how to leave, wanting a reason to stay.

‘I’ll be working on the bill tomorrow,’ Lexa says, a little tremor of something in her voice. Hesitant? Hopeful? 

‘If you would like to come in the evening. It just might change the way you view this part of the fight.’

‘You already have,’ Clarke replies.

She realizes how true it is. Her idea of Lexa has changed considerably since her awed first impression of the stunning, entitled noblewoman. The awe is still there, but for altogether different reasons.

Their eyes meet, Gaze steady for a moment, a lifetime, something unnamed, unnamable perhaps, in the air between them. Lexa smiles a little, letting those three words wash over her. 

‘Until tomorrow then,’ Clarke calls taking a little step backwards.

She gives Lexa one last look and heads out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gasp! Shock!
> 
> Nah, I know most of you had figured it out already. Hope you enjoyed the big reveal nonetheless.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again for your comments. I really love hearing about your reactions to the story. :)
> 
> The arguments against women's suffrage in this chapter are the actual ones that were used to oppose the vote for women, as absurd as they may seem now.

Clarke’s mind has been utterly uncooperative today. She handed Mr. Davies a syringe instead of a bandage, tried to clean Harry’s stitches before unwrapping them, and accidentally gave Mrs. Henderson a purgative instead of a painkiller. After numerous attempts to get her to focus, Davies sent her to straighten the cramped supply room where any damage she could cause would be minimal. 

If you asked her what she was thinking about she wouldn’t have been able to put it into words. It was more of an unnamed feeling, a pull, a yearning. Ridiculous thought. Still whatever it is is somehow too big to share brain space with anything else. Lucius Wood, Alexandra Woolcott, Lexa. Three names seem hardly excessive really. Each a portal, a code word, a rite of passage to a new dimension of this creature that seems ever more unknowable.

It is little wonder then that she can feel the buzz of her nerves as she steps up to the front door she barged through yesterday, as if she’s meeting Lexa for the first time. And maybe she is. Who will she find today? The shy gentleman committed to political reform? The untouchable noblewoman? The beautiful girl who fixes her with the perplexing gaze, curious and alluring?

She is only mildly surprised when Lexa opens the door herself, hair pinned back simply, dressed in pants and a loose men’s shirt tucked in. There is no moustache, no tie or jacket. The top buttons have been opened giving her a casual appearance, definitely more casual than Clarke has ever seen her. 

‘Sometimes it’s more comfortable to wear pants,’ Lexa says with a small shrug, noticing Clarke’s appraisal.

‘You do look rather dashing in menswear,’ Clarke admits.

Lexa’s mouth twitches into an inadvertent smirk and the tips of her ears turn pink. Clarke feels the anticipation of the day melt away and a rush of confidence return. Funny how quickly Lexa’s presence puts her at ease. She steps into the hall behind her, looking around.

‘We’re alone,’ Lexa says, answering her thoughts. ‘I’m usually alone here. It’s simpler. I can come and go as I please.’

Clarke nods and follows Lexa towards what she assumes is the study. She marvels a little at being here, being literally invited in to Lexa’s secret. It’s true that she kind of burst into it last time, but Lexa didn’t seemed fazed or defensive. In fact, she met Clarke’s questions with calm openness. 

Little does she know that after Clarke left, Lexa stood and waited; waited for the panic to hit, the fear at her secret being in the hands of a girl she barely knew. Besides the few whom she had chosen to tell, no one had ever had any cause for suspicion. And in a matter of weeks Clarke had stumbled headfirst into her secret life. She had been careless. She was continually careless around Clarke. She expected dread, self-flagellation, her mind jumping into overdrive trying to find a way to contain the damage. 

She was surprised when nothing came. She felt oddly at peace, relieved even that Clarke knew. Safe. The next realization was stunning: she trusted Clarke. It didn’t matter that she didn’t have all the information. She felt it in her gut, knew inarguably, that Clarke Griffin would not harm her, would protect her. It felt…strange. Good.

\-------

‘It’s nice,’ she says. ‘I actually like it better than your mansion. It feels less…pompous.’

Lexa laughs and there’s not a hint of offense in her tone. They’re walking down the hall now and Clarke is admiring the tasteful woodwork. It somehow feels like it belongs more in the country than the city.

‘It was my family’s,’ she explains, ‘before my marriage. I managed to hold onto it.’

Clarke’s ears perk up at this mention. She realizes she has a thousand questions. Who is her family? How does she pull this ruse off? Why?

But they’ve arrived at the study and the moment is passed. It’s dim and a little dusty, shelves and shelves of books with thick brown spines. A solid, brown desk is piled with more books and papers, half-open and scattered, as if the reader was pulled away mid-sentence. An unmatching chair from a dining set has been brought in and Lexa settles into it after motioning for Clarke to take the plush, leather one beside it. 

There’s a pause then, like an awkward transitioning between scenes.

‘What’s this?’ Clarke asks picking up a paper. 

‘These are our adversary’s main arguments against women’s suffrage. I’ve been going over them to ensure that our bill addresses their concerns.’

Clarke’s eyes scan the list.

_Because women already have the municipal vote, and these bodies deal with women’s issues such as housing, education, care of children, workhouses and so forth. Parliament has to deal with the administration of a vast Empire which lies outside the legitimate sphere of woman's influence._

Clarke rolls her eyes and looks at Lexa, who inclines her head to show that they are indeed legitimate arguments. She continues reading aloud.

_‘Because women do not fight in wars to defend their country. The effect of introducing a large female ele-ment into the Imperial electorate would undoubtedly be to weaken the center of power in the eyes of our system of colonies._

‘Weaken? Don’t they realize what untapped strength lies in the women of this country?’

Lexa smiles, feeling her fire recharged by Clarke’s exasperation at the blatant sexism. It may also have something to do with the actual warmth she can feel at Clarke’s nearness, the way her skin tingles when Clarke’s hand accidentally brushes against it in her outrage. Her senses have become hyper aware. She can’t help breathing in Clarke’s scent, memorizing the way her lips move as she reads, mapping the curve of her neck. She barely registers the next argument.

_‘Because the acquirement of the Parliamentary vote would logically involve admission to Parliament itself, and to all Government offices. It is scarcely possible to imagine a woman being Minister for War, and yet the principles of the Suffragettes involve that and many similar absurdities._

‘Oh you bet it would! A nation in which half of its population are considered less than people and governed strictly by the other half is the true absurdity.’

Lexa smiles again.

‘That is an excellent argument, Clarke. Let me add it to my notes.’

Clarke feels a little flush of pleasure. At the praise. At the way Lexa’s lips wrap around her name. She watches Lexa take the pen in her left hand and scribble a few words to her extensive list. 

‘Oh, we’re both left-handed,’ Clarke remarks.

Lexa’s eyes flick up guiltily as if she’s just been caught with her hand in the cookie jar.

‘Lucius is,’ she replies after a pause. ‘It makes our handwriting different, reduces chances of people figuring it out.’

‘Clever,’ Clarke replies, wondering at how many other details Lexa has to consider every time she switches personas. 

‘So how did Lucius come about?’

Lexa is quiet, eyes downcast. Clarke feels her body stiffen slightly as she purses her lips. She meant the question as casual, light-hearted. Only now she realizes that she might be asking for more information than their short acquaintance warrants. Has she pushed too far?

But then Lexa begins to speak.

‘I guess it all goes back to Costia.’

Her voice is low, neutral, but with an effortful neutrality, as if each word must be cleansed of emotion before being uttered.

‘I was young when we met, 15 or so. My parents passed away when I was a child and mine was an isolated upbringing, days blending into one another made bearable only by the challenges put to me by my mentor. Costia was a spark, a vivacity I had not known. With her I finally tasted life. I experienced eagerness in waking up, a hunger to know, to explore, to be. Love.’

She pauses and Clarke can see the slight tremor running through her.

‘She was my family and in my naïveté, I thought it would always be so. It was enough. I was happy. For over two years I woke up stupidly and obliviously happy.’

She looks up now, eyes questioning, measuring Clarke’s reaction to her words. These things aren’t spoken of. Not like this, in quiet, open tones, free of scandal or shame.

Clarke nods slightly to show she understands.

‘It didn’t last,’ she offers, prompting Lexa to continue.

Lexa shakes her head slowly.

‘I had no parents to please or disappoint, no pressure to uphold a sacred family heritage. My uncle and guardian was always overseas, pursuing his adventures in the Orient. But Costia did. When they discovered, their actions were swift and devastating. They whisked her away, never to be seen by me again.’

She swallows, forcing the quiver from her voice.

‘They sent word to my uncle as well and I knew it was only a matter of time. I was an only child. The estate should’ve been my birthright. Instead it belonged to my mother’s brother whom I had not seen before he arrived to take possession of it at their funeral. He wrote back, deploring my behavior and promising to return by my 18th birthday to ensure that I was properly married. 

‘At first, I did not care. What difference did one future have to another if Costia was in none of them. But my mentor wouldn’t hear of it and slowly my melancholy turned first to rage then determination. The world was wrong. Costia, I, all women really, were little more than property to be managed and passed around by whatever man was granted ownership. My happiness was already forfeit, but perhaps I could prevent others from have theirs torn from them. I decided to take matters into my own hands.’

Clarke hears a measure of strength return to her voice as she relives the decision.

‘That is how Lucius was born. If the terms of my marriage were left to my uncle he would have wed me to the highest bidder. If I refused, he had the power to make my life miserable. If I ran, what power had I to change anything? 

‘Mine is an old family, but only distantly related to nobility and not wealthy enough to be of much notice, so there were not many to wonder at the appearance of a cousin. Lincoln took him around to various gentlemen’s clubs and events and before long he was accepted as one of them. Meanwhile, I wrote to my uncle as Lucius. From his letter two things had been abundantly clear, that he was displeased at the thought of cutting his trip short, and that his main concern was securing my parents’ estate. Lucius introduced himself and offered to take care of the matter in his stead, assuring him that it would be his pleasure to see to it that I was properly married out of family duty alone, without expectation of remuneration. Titus was skeptical of course, but his desire to stay away and Lucius’s reassurances eventually won out. ¬I have found people ask very few questions when they are getting what they want. 

‘One evening in a club, Lucius met Lord Woolcott, one of the most notorious figures on the London nobility scene, as famous for his wealth as he was infamous for his womanizing. I saw my chance. Theodore needed a wife to make him respectable, a prize to be shown off, the missing jewel in his collection. Only he had no intention of ceasing his licentious activities which had resulted in several prospective wives breaking off their engagement. This put me in an ideal bargaining position. I would be his wife, perform my required role at functions and add value to his image. In return, our marriage would be in name only. This granted me a freedom I could not have attained otherwise.’

‘Wait, so you never…’ Clarke asks, only half managing to keep the surprise from her voice.

Lexa shakes her head, eyebrows furrowing in distaste at the thought.

‘I could never,’ she replies quietly. ‘That was made abundantly clear from the start, and a few potent reminders on nights when he was inebriated drove the point home. He is content with strutting through parties with a wife half his age on his arm, and I am content to play the part for what I get in return.’

‘And it doesn’t bother you? Being with someone you know you could never love? Ruling out your chances of finding it?’

Lexa swallows, a faint shadow passing over her face before she turns to Clarke and replies.

‘I have already experienced love and it was taken from me.’

Her tone is final, resigned.

‘My life is no longer about that. It is about ensuring that women after me have a voice, a choice, a chance to make their lives what they want them to be. My hope is for them.’

The air is heavy with the weight of her sacrifice. Clarke doesn’t know what she feels. Awe, respect, unfathomability at the thought of going through life expecting never to find personal happiness again. But above all, sadness. She feels her chest squeeze as she looks at Lexa. She looks small and weary in the dim light, framed only by loose cotton instead of her elegant dresses and tailored suits. Their eyes find each other and for the first time Clarke sees the sorrow in the emerald pools, an old, weary kind of sadness, so familiar that its presence has almost become comforting. But there is steely determination too and Clarke knows that Lexa would rather die than give up on her fight.

She has a sudden overpowering urge to touch her, to squeeze her shoulder, press the palm of her hand to her cheek, a touch which could somehow communicate what words cannot. Her eyes drop to Lexa’s lips and she remembers their softness, their tremulous contact with her own. Clarke finds the kiss changed in her memory, retroactively imbued with a new kind of meaning she can’t quite grasp yet. She wonders if it will become clearer if she tastes them again.

The doorbell rings, jarring Clarke from her thoughts. Lexa checks the clock quickly before heading down the stairs.

‘Lincoln,’ she says, only mildly surprised to be receiving an unannounced visit. 

‘I’ve had a very interesting meeting with Lady Dortmouth,’ he says by way of greeting. ‘She’s willing to stand with us. I think she could be useful in,’ he trails off at the sight of Clarke at the top of the stairs. 

His shock at seeing her here in Lucius’s house is quickly schooled into a neutral expression.

‘Clarke,’ he greets her.

There’s a hint of something in his voice. Triumph? Relief?

‘I’ve just seen Octavia. They’re looking for you everywhere. Something about her brother.’  
They didn’t really get very far in their discussion about the bill.

‘Go,’ Lexa says, nodding slightly. ‘We’ll finish some other time.’ 

Clarke nods and hurries down the stairs as Lincoln disappears into a side room to stow his coat. 

‘Thank you,’ Clarke says, voice little more than a whisper. 

She hopes Lexa understands, even though she herself is not entirely sure what she wants to convey. Thank you for trusting me? For telling me? For embracing your role of loneliness in the hopes that others don’t have to?

Lexa nods in reply and the door is closed.

She exhales a long shuddering breath and presses her forehead to the door. She’s never spoken of this, not to someone who didn’t already know. But it’s not the revelation that has her unsettled. It’s that fact that when she spoke the words aloud they somehow rang false. She had closed her heart. She had! She cared about all women now, not one. The hope of love had been expunged from her life. 

Only, when Clarke Griffin was sitting across from her listening, when her heart thudded in her chest at her proximity, silences heavy with a kind of magnetism, chest constricting with the effort of not closing the distance, she knew all pretenses of stoicism were unbelievable. Her determination not to care, a failed hope. 

She presses her lips together, swallows hard and shakes her head. Lincoln is waiting. Their fight is only beginning.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, your kudos and comments are the joy of my days. :)

Clarke steps briskly onto the sidewalk, feeling the slight chill in the air. They are well into spring by now and the air is invigorating. She decides to walk as the thought of being crammed into a tram with dozens of people is enough to make her feel claustrophobic. She needs space to breathe, to think. 

Thoughts of Lexa fill her mind. She tries to imagine Lexa as a teen, carefree and in love. Only she was never really carefree. Costia was a respite, a ray of sunshine breaking through the loss of her parents. Only to be taken away too. And she understands. More than that. For a moment, it was as if they shared the same, not heart or brain, feeling system? Emotional wavelength? As if Lexa’s emotions got away from her momentarily and occupied the space between them and Clarke was allowed to feel them too. 

Now the tightening ache in her chest makes her feel like she hasn’t given them all back. She’s not sure what to do with them either. She wants to know Lexa. Lexa confiding in her shifted something between them, intensified the bond. But despite her desire to know, it’s not pleasant. It’s heavy and sad and confusing. A part of her yearns to do everything in her power to lift the sadness in her eyes, pull Lexa into a tight hug and tell her that it’s ok to let go for a moment and just be. But the warrior in her is in awe at the strength and focus she possesses and longs to emulate the stoicism it springs from.

Before she’s quite ready to interact with people again, she finds herself at the pharmacy door. Lincoln didn’t say where Octavia was but this is their go-to meeting point if nothing else is specified. She pushes through the door and makes her way towards the light and sound of voices at the back.

‘…of all the stupid, moronic, brainless, ludicrous things, Bell.’

Octavia. 

Clarke has never heard her take that tone with her brother. It must be bad. She swallows and hurries into the room.

‘Clarke,’ Raven says, a glimmer of relief momentarily lifting the desperation on her face. 

She’s been pacing, wringing her hands. Octavia is leaning against the counter staring knives at Bellamy, her body so tightly wound the slightest touch could make it explode. Bellamy is slumped in a chair, only looking slightly chastised, the guilt in his face mixed with stubborn defiance. He might know he screwed up but he’s still ready to die defending his position.

‘What happened?’ Clarke asks, dreading the answer.

‘You tell her, genius,’ Octavia snarls at her brother.

Bellamy’s face hardens further.

‘Finn and I decided it was time to do something more.’

Clarke glowers at him but says nothing, reserving judgement until he’s done.

‘It’s all wrong, Clarke. The way they don’t even care. The way we are expendable. We had to show them that we aren’t. That we can hurt them too.’

He pauses, feeling the glare of all three women. But when his justification is met only with silence he continues.

‘Raven taught us how to make a bomb.’

Now Clarke’s mouth falls open. She turns her death stare to Raven.

‘Like hell I wanted them to do this, Clarke!’ Raven counters defensively, looking like she’s about to leap across the room and strangle Bellamy. 

‘We were just talking one evening, about the unrest in Europe. That factories might start producing more weapons. I told them if it came down to it weapons could be easily made. They pushed for examples and I gave them one. I didn’t fucking teach you how to make a bomb.’

The last line is flung at Bellamy with a cold, accusatory scowl. 

He waves it away and continues.

‘We decided to make a statement. We prepared the bomb, set it up outside Lord Manderly’s house.’

Clarke’s eyes narrow at this but she says nothing.

‘It was just supposed to be a small explosion, outside the back entrance at night when no one was there. Just a scare to show them we mean business. Only,’ he trails off.

‘Only these two idiots know nothing about how much fuel to use when making a petrol bomb,’ Raven finishes bitterly.

‘How bad?’ Clarke asks.

Bellamy has the decency to swallow before continuing. 

‘It blew up half the house. Lord and Lady Manderly were out, but the housekeeper and a couple of the maids, one valet.’

‘Jesus,’ Clarke breathes out shakily. ‘Are they?’

‘Dead,’ Octavia confirms. ‘A few others were pretty badly wounded as well.’

‘How could you be so fucking stupid,’ Clarke says rounding on Bellamy, voice trembling with anger.

The stubbornness returns to his eyes. 

‘We needed to do something,’ he replies defensively. ‘Pamphlets and pretty speeches will only get us so far.’

‘And this? This is what you chose to do?’ Clarke asks incredulously. ‘Kill innocent people? How does this make us any better than them?’

Bellamy’s lips thin. 

‘Not better. But it shows them we’re just as strong. That we will do whatever it takes.’

‘Oh, so we’re murdering now, are we?’

‘Look. I’m not happy people died, Clarke. I wish Finn hadn’t done it. I tried to get him to be more careful. But a message was sent, so it’s not all in vain.’

‘Tell that to the families of the people who died,’ Clarke counters, fuming now. ‘You knew Finn was upset. He’s not thinking straight, Bellamy. How could you encourage him? How could you let him out there with a bomb you helped build? Lord Manderly’s house? Really?’

Bellamy is quiet now. 

‘Where is Finn?’ Clarke demands.

‘He…they caught him.’

‘What?’ Clarke asks, a chill running down her spine.

‘Some of the neighbors saw him after the explosion. I was further away and ran, but the police were there in record time and caught up with him a few streets down.’

Clarke folds her hands and presses her fingers into her forehead. How the hell did this happened.

‘They must be holding him downtown. He’ll have some sort of trial.’

The room is silent as they all reflect on what this means.

‘Clarke,’ Raven says, her voice is almost a plea. ‘Lucius could help. He’s an MP. People respect him. They’ll listen. It was an accident Clarke. He didn’t mean to. You know Finn. He can be a piss-pot but he would never purposely hurt innocent people. He’s just not himself. Lucius he…he listens to you, Clarke. I know he does. If you ask, maybe…’

Clarke exhales, thinking of Lexa. How different the world seemed when she left her house less than an hour ago. Raven is staring at her, pleading, admonishing. Raven doesn’t plead. Raven is bright and fearless and self-assured. She tightens her fist, trying to get a grasp on the feeling that everything is unraveling. 

Raven’s right. Finn might have shown no honor in the romance arena, but he was one of them. He fought with them and hoped with them, despaired and exulted with them. The people in this room and Finn, they are her people, the family she’s chosen. She can’t just pretend she doesn’t know him now.

Clarke sighs.

‘I’ll talk to he-, him,’ she says, barely catching herself from revealing Lexa’s ruse. 

‘I’m going by the jail tomorrow to see what I can find out. I’ll try and see Lucius after that. You’d better not go anywhere near there,’ she adds glaring at Bellamy.

He nods.

With nothing else to say they all head out for the night, knowing full well that sleep is out of the question.

\-------

Clarke can’t decide if she’s more frustrated or exhausted. She pounds on the door one last time for good measure before stepping away from Lucius’s house. She’s obviously not here. Just what she needed today. 

Earlier that morning the jail proved impossible to penetrate. The people she met ranged from bored and unhelpful to downright hostile. She was not a family member. There had been no trial yet. She couldn’t see him. She did find out that the trial was set for two days from now. Apparently when you try to blow up nobility justice follows swiftly. 

And now Lexa isn’t here and Clarke feels at a loss, powerless to stop the wheels that are already steadily turning towards Finn’s demise. But there is something she can do. She hops on a tram and in half an hour is once more walking in Lady Woolcott’s perfectly-tended neighborhood. It occurs to her as she approaches the mansion that she has given no thought to a valid excuse for her presence there. She bears no pharmacy package or news that could act as a cover story. Still she feels her feet climbing the steps determinedly, sees her hand ring the doorbell.

Gustus is even more imposing than she remembers, his towering bulk filling the doorway as he looks down at her with a barely-concealed scowl.

‘I must speak to Lady Woolcott,’ Clake says, thankful that at least her steady voice does not reveal how her insides are churning. 

He raises his eyebrows imperiously as if to ask what right she has to be demanding a meeting with his mistress. 

‘Have you been summoned?’ is all he says.

‘No. But if you’ll tell her that Clarke Griffin is here she might agree to see me.’

Will. She wanted to say will. Lexa would see her, right? After last night? There was a kind of trust there.

He opens his mouth and Clarke is certain that he is ready to refuse without bothering to disturb his mistress. Then a voice comes from behind him and Clarke feels her knees nearly give way in relief.

‘Let her in, Gustus.’

Her voice is low, calm, but there is little room for argument. Gustus reluctantly steps aside and Clarke enters to find Lexa standing at the top of the staircase, clad once more in the elegance of Lady Woolcott. Her eyebrows raise slightly, questioningly. Clarke swallows, racking her brain for something to say in front of the butler. 

‘Milady, I must speak to you about the last shipment of pills. There was a problem with some of them and I couldn’t risk not telling you in person.’

Lexa nods slightly, eyes narrowing slightly as she regards Clarke. She motions with her head. 

‘We can discuss this in my study.’

Clarke feels Gustus’s glare boring into the side of her head and doesn’t give him the satisfaction of facing him. She follows Lexa, feeling lighter already. Lexa exudes a quiet sort of confidence; a calm, calculated power, and Clarke is certain she’ll know how to fix things. She allows herself to hope for the first time since hearing the news.

Unlike her last few visits Lexa closes the door to the study behind them. She motions for Clarke to sit but she declines, too nervous to stay still. Lexa eyes her steadily, reading her mood. She crosses the study and silently pours her a glass of water which Clarke accepts with a shaky hand. 

‘I’m sure you’ve heard about what happened last night,’ Clarke begins.

Lexa nods slowly, eyes darkening. 

‘It was an accident,’ Clarke continues, trying to keep the pleading from her voice. ‘The guy who did it, Finn, his father is condemned to a bed for the rest of his life because of Lord Manderly. He wanted to draw attention to our movement, maybe get a little revenge, but he’s an idiot and miscalculated. The bomb was a lot stronger than he expected.’

Lexa purses her lips but says nothing so Clarke continues. 

‘Finn is, has always been, the greatest advocate for peaceful protests. He would never do something like this intentionally. I was hoping you, Lucius that is, could go down there for his trial, clear things up. You’re practically a lawyer, Lexa. I’ve heard the speeches you give, seen the way you prepare bills. If you spoke for him they might listen.’

There is a moment of silence, heavy with expectation as Clarke watches Lexa. When Lexa meets her eyes there is something wet and heavy in them. Regret? 

‘I’m sorry, Clarke. I cannot.’

Her voice is thick, every word weighted. Clarke’s hope vanishes in shock. The aura of power that seemed to envelop Lexa is gone. It cannot be.

‘Lexa, you have to. He’s one of us,’ she tries.

‘But Finn is guilty,’ she replies quietly, voice steady, neutral. ‘Regardless of his character or intentions, five people are dead because of him. Justice must be served.’

Lexa’s eyes are set and Clarke can see the unshakable determination that has gotten her this far, empowered her in the face of difficulty. Only this time her cold resolve is set against Clarke and she can’t help shivering slightly.

‘It’s not fair,’ Clarke says, hating the desperation that seeps into her voice. ‘He’s just a boy. What about the people who murder and oppress without lifting a finger? Where’s Finn’s justice?’

‘You care about him,’ Lexa observes quietly. 

Clarke hesitates, taken aback by the question.

‘I care about them all,’ she replies fervently. ‘They’re my people, Lexa. The only family I’ve got.’

Lexa nods.

‘I do wish there was something I could do, Clarke,’ her voice is sincere, calming, but somehow it only infuriates Clarke more.

‘It would not do for me to defend him. He is responsible for his actions. If I side with him it would jeopardize all I have built. I would be seen as biased, colluding with a murderer, tainted. None of my arguments would be taken seriously, not the ones in his defense, nor any I might make on any other subject after that.’

Her eyes were pleading now, willing Clarke to understand. Clarke shakes her head.

‘They’ll kill him, Lexa,’ she whispers, shivering at the thought. 

Lexa opens her mouth to contradict her, but closes it again without a word. Because yes, they probably will kill him and denying it now won’t make it any easier. 

‘How can you stand there,’ Clarke’s voice raises accusingly, ‘knowing that he will die? A boy will die and you might be able to stop it but you choose to do nothing?’

Lexa’s lips thin and Clarke can see her jaw working, clenching.

‘Sometimes you have to concede a battle to win a war, Clarke. I am choosing to preserve my usefulness to the cause.’

‘Concede a battle?’ Clarke scoffs bitterly. ‘You’re just as cold as they are.’

Lexa winces a little, and despite her anger Clarke regrets it in light of yesterday’s revelations. She knows Lexa has suffered too. She almost opens her mouth to take it back, but then thinks of Finn and says nothing.

‘I am what I need to be,’ Lexa says quietly.

Clarke can’t tell if there’s a tremor in her voice or if it’s just her own emotions coloring everything. Lexa’s eyes are unreadable, expression impassive. She glares at Lexa silently for a moment before turning and yanking open the door. She hurries down the stairs and barrels out the front door, not bothering to wait for the surly butler to let her out.

Finn is going to die and she can’t stop it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dra-ma! Kind of to be expected with Finn and Bellamy involved. Let me know what you think.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As usual, your comments and kudos give me life!
> 
> The drama is strong in this chapter.

She is numb. She’s felt too much all week and now, when she should be feeling the most, there is nothing left to feel. She sees Raven standing nearby with another woman. Finn’s mother? Sister? Raven knows his family well of course. She practically grew up in their house. Raven sends her a withering look and she can feel her stomach coiling. They’ve barely spoken all week. 

She was enraged when Clarke returned from Lexa’s house with the news that Lucius wouldn’t help them. 

‘How can he?’ she exclaimed ramming her fist into the table. ‘I thought he was all committed to our cause, willing to fight and whatnot. Now he’s afraid of getting his hands dirty?’

‘It’s not that,’ Clarke heard herself reply in a hollow voice. 

Raven carried on as if she hadn’t heard her. 

‘His dad just got crushed for Christsake. He’s in pain. He didn’t mean to.’

‘Finn did this, Raven.’

Clarke’s voice was loud, assertive, surprising them both.

‘Whatever he means to us, however much it goes against his nature and we want it not to be true, he did it. No one forced him to do it. No one’s life was at risk if he didn’t. Sure, Bellamy filled his head with stupid ideas, but that’s Bellamy. He tries it every week and Finn knew better. Yes, his dad is paralyzed for life, but I’ll be damned if more than half of us haven’t dealt with our own tragedies. It doesn’t justify blowing up innocent people. He’s…he’s responsible,’ Clarke finished, voice now scarcely louder than a whisper. 

Raven stared at her, mouth ajar. Clarke herself was taken aback by the force of her outburst. She hadn’t really accepted it before then. Putting it into words made her realize how angry she was. And she was angry at Finn. He had done this. He had put himself in this position. He had made it impossible for them to save him. And now he was going to die and make it impossible to stay angry at him.

Clarke continued quietly, hoping against hope that Raven would understand.

‘If Le-, Lucius stands up and defends him all everyone will see is a Minister defending a murderer. He can’t stop this. And if he tries it will just ruin his reputation and any chances he has of getting this bill passed.’

Clarke hated saying it. Hated the sound of the words as they left her mouth, the admission that, whatever she might have told Lexa earlier, she knew it was her only choice. But that didn’t make her any less angry and when Raven cursed Lucius, and Clarke for defending him she had found a sort of cathartic release in it. 

‘You say Finn is responsible for letting others turn him into a killer,’ Raven spat out, ‘but what about you? You’re letting Lucius turn you into a cold-hearted pragmatist who sacrifices her friends.’

Clarke stood dumbstruck and watched Raven storm from the room.

\-------

Recognizing Lexa was right didn’t mean she could stand the sight of her yet, and Clarke had avoided her, using Lincoln as a go-between. Not that there was much to be communicated. Their activities had pretty much come to a standstill since Finn’s explosion, with only a few half-hearted attempts at collecting signatures. 

The trial was awful. Finn stood there, stunned and afraid, barely able to mumble replies as the accusations were leveled at him. He denied nothing, but they were not satisfied with his confession, continuing to tear his character apart until most present believed he was the worst kind of person. He took it willingly, face flushed with shame. Clarke thought of how he must blame himself, must think this all just what he deserved.

The sentence was swiftly passed; death by hanging, to be carried out within the week. Clarke’s was one of the few gasps in the room. The rest of the spectators nodded their approval or shook their heads in disgust. No one thought it more or less than he deserved.

\-------

Clarke shivers outside the jail although the night is quite warm. Now that executions are no longer public the crowd simply gathers outside the jailhouse at the appointed time, stand around muttering and sharing gossip, occasionally mixed with sobs from loved ones and angry rants from injured parties. They wait for one of the jailers to let them know when it is done, and then disperse. 

Tonight’s crowd is slightly larger. An anti-suffrage rant has started up at one end of the square, quickly refuted by passionate arguments on the daily oppression women endure. For once Clarke does not participate. She is silent, remembering that afternoon.

They finally allowed her to see Finn, as it was his last day. He was wan and anxious, wasting away in anticipation of his death. How terrible it must be, Clarke thought, waiting for death. Knowing what hour would be your last. What do you think or do? How do you prepare? Badly, she thought, seeing Finn’s haunted expression, the angry bags under his eyes.

‘Hey,’ she said. 

‘Hey,’ he replied with a brave attempt at a smile.

What do you say to someone who’s dying? Does talk of life, of things that will continue on when they’ve ceased to be, make it harder? Do you pretend it’s not happening? Or does the awkward farce make it worse?

‘You know, I was right about Bellamy being an idiot,’ Finn said, a hollow twinkle in his eye.

Clarke laughed; a horrible, desperate kind of laugh much closer to a sob.

‘Luckily, actions speak louder than words and I’m pretty sure I’ve made sure that his future attempts at recruitment will be unsuccessful. You should thank me.’

Clarke looked from his forced smile to his sad, tired eyes and took his hand. She squeezed it tightly but her throat was thick and the words that did come to mind fit the feelings all wrong, so she remained quiet. She hated being faced with death again. Hadn’t her father’s been enough?

After a moment, his smile fell from his face.

‘I’m scared, Clarke,’ he admitted in a trembling whisper. 

And then he was just a boy, a boy who had specialized in cheesy flirtations and hand-crafted gifts and had dreamed of peace. A silly, unfaithful boy, who had caused both pain and joy, but a boy nonetheless. One without the foresight to see where his actions would lead. Not someone with the heart of a killer. Clarke found it impossible to look at him and see him as someone who deserved to be hanged. It struck her as an awful kind of madness, to kill in return for killing. When did the world become this?

‘It’ll be quick,’ she said, trying not to shudder at the thought. ‘I’ll be here. Right outside.’

He nodded, but still radiated anxiety.

‘Hey, remember that day when we ‘borrowed’ your uncle’s carriage and just took off for the country? We were supposed to be at work but it was too beautiful a day and we just couldn’t stay inside.’

Finn nodded again, shoulders relaxing slightly.

‘Once we got out of the city everything else kind of stopped existing. There was no work or voting or pamphlets. Just the blue sky, potholes, and your desperate attempts to control the horses and avoid getting us killed.’

Finn actually cracked a smile. 

‘I still remember Octavia calling you a numbskull and shoving you out of the way. Things got decidedly smoother after she took the reins.’

‘Hey, I was getting the hang of it,’ he said, only half defensively. 

‘Sure you were,’ she teased back. ‘I think Raven would’ve killed you before you actually had a chance to master it.’

He smiled and offered no argument.

‘Think about that,’ Clarke said quietly. ‘Go there when the time comes.’

Finn nodded, squeezed her hand. Their time was up.

‘Thank you, Clarke.’

She squeezed back, then rose quickly and rushed out of the room. She wouldn’t let him see her tears.

\-------

The crowd is growing more and more excited as 6 pm draws near. There’s a kind of nervous buzz, the repulsed anticipation of waiting for the macabre. Clarke shivers in the balmy air, huddle into her coat.

Then the clock strikes, pealing loudly as the crowd falls silent. One. She imagines the hangman mounting the platform. Two. Checking the noose. Three. Trapdoor opening. Four. She tries to push it away but the body drops, hard and heavy in her mind’s eye. Five. She finds herself desperately entertaining the ghastly hope that his neck was broken in the drop. Six. She fights the image of his body convulsing. 

Silence ensues. The crowd holds their breath, waiting for some sort of sign that what they imagined did indeed happen. 

It seems hours before a guard appears and lazily drawls, ‘He’s dead.’

The square immediately comes to life. Arguments resume. Outlandish claims of hearing the trapdoor open, though everyone knows executions are timed to coincide with the church bells to avoid such thinks.

Clarke feels empty, numb. It’s as if the sights and sounds of the square are only reaching her from a great distance. She is vaguely aware of Raven’s anguished screams as she is held by someone Clarke can’t focus enough to recognize. Suddenly it all feels suffocating. The square feels heavy with death and its grotesque aftermath. She stumbles a little, pushing clumsily through the crowds, trying to get into one of the streets leading away. 

She doubles over in the relative silence of the alley, taking huge, gasping breaths between her legs. It’s like her father’s death all over. After a moment, she regains some measure of control over her breathing, though it’s still ragged and uneven. That’s when her other senses kick in and she realizes she’s not alone. She stands and turns in one terrified movement to see three men watching her from a short distance away.

‘Told ya, Roy. Ever seen a broad so broken up about a murderer’s death?’

‘Ah, you just might be right, Tommy,’ apparently-Roy replies. ‘Looks like we got ourselves the girlfriend.’

‘Is that right?’ says the third man, addressing Clarke directly. ‘Were you his girlfriend? Were you the one that filled his head with women’s nonsense and turned a decent young man into a killer?’

He spits disgustedly and all three step closer. Clarke tenses. She could never outrun them. Screaming is probably the best option if things go south. Her fists ball up at her sides ready to defend herself.

‘Well,’ apparently-Roy again, ‘answer the man.’

‘He wasn’t my boyfriend,’ she replies simply.

‘I doubt that very much,’ number three says. ‘You witches are out to ruin men’s lives in any way you can. Turning them against each other. Well…’

He’s close now. Clarke can feel the stench of his breath on her face.

‘…I say one less witch will do the world some good.’

He raises his hand then, Clarke lifts her own in defense, instinctively ducking her head to the side and letting out a scream. 

But the blow never hits. 

The hand is caught in the air inches from her face by a firm, sinewy arm. The parry is followed by two precise jabs to the exposed ribcage and a hard kick to the back of the leg. Her attacker falls to the ground with a cry of pain.

‘Attack her and you attack me.’

The figure is hooded, but the voice is unmistakable. 

Lexa. 

Or Lucius, rather. There’s the added huskiness she puts on when playing the role. Clarke’s body shudders in relief. And something almost like awe at the smooth, unruffled precision with which she dispatched her attacker.

Roy and Tommy stare at Lucius for a moment, then down at their friend writhing on the ground. It’s obvious that he was the ringleader and without him his feckless cohorts seem disinclined to take on a superior opponent. They opt for calling Lucius a ‘cunt lover’ and helping their injured friend away.

‘Hardly qualifies as an insult,’ Lexa shrugs, the quip darting from her mouth before she has time to consider the propriety of it in this situation. 

She turns to Clarke and Clarke could swear she sees a flicker of concern in her eyes. 

‘It’s not safe her alone,’ she says simply. ‘Where are your friends?’

‘Back there.’

Clarke gestures vaguely in the direction of the square, visibly dreading the thought of going back. 

‘Come,’ Lexa says, and her hand on Clarke’s arm leaves little room for discussion. 

She hails a carriage, bundles Clarke inside and climbs in, shutting the door firmly behind them. 

\-------

Clarke says nothing during the ride and she’s thankful that Lexa makes no attempt to draw her into conversation. Only when they pull up at Lucius’s house instead of the pharmacy does she turn questioning eyes at Lexa.

‘You can stay here tonight,’ Lexa says. ‘I’ll send word to the pharmacist.’

Clarke nods, surprised at the relief she feels at not having to go back right away, not having to deal with anyone. 

Lexa wordlessly leads her into the house, motioning her up the stairs and into a guestroom where Clarke allows herself to sink into the bed, head resting listlessly against the headboard.

‘Would you like anything to eat?’ 

Lexa’s voice is soft as if unwilling to intrude on Clarke’s grieving. 

Clarke shakes her head, tension squeezing and churning in her stomach. Eating would be impossible. Lexa sets a glass of water on the bedside table and then takes a seat in a chair nearby. 

Clarke is surprised at how unobtrusive her presence feels. There are no expectations. Lexa isn’t waiting for her to act or speak. She’s not impatient to be dismissed either. She’s just there, a presence which somehow makes the air around Clarke a little less oppressive. Her breaths begin to come in a bit more steadily. 

They sit in silence for a while. Lexa keeps her eyes downcast, allows herself to get lost in her own thoughts to avoid trying to read Clarke’s. She feels her heart jump when Clarke finally speaks.

‘It’s my fault.’

Her voice is cracked from hours of silence and the words come out in a broken kind of whisper. Lexa’s eyes dart up to focus on her. She remains still, waiting for Clarke to continue at her own pace. 

‘It’s my fault he’s dead,’ she says again. 

Her eyes are fixed on the opposite side of the room.

‘I recruited him. He was just a boy with big ideas about what the world could be.’ 

She pauses, reminiscing.

‘He liked me. It wasn’t hard to convince him to join us. If I hadn’t…’

Her voice breaks as the words stick in her throat. She gulps them down before continuing.

‘If I hadn’t this wouldn’t have happened. He would never have been in that situation. He’d be safe.’

Her eyes meet Lexa’s then and Lexa feels it all; guilt, anger, helplessness; churning in the deep blue. She wants to tell Clarke it isn’t so, Finn made his own choices, influenced by circumstances far beyond her control. 

But she doesn’t. Because the look in Clarke’s eyes tells her she won’t believe it. She’ll only embrace her guilt more firmly. Instead she rises and moves to sit next to Clarke, head heavy against the headboard, eyes fixed on the same wall Clarke has been staring at.

‘She died,’ Lexa whispers, too afraid of her voice cracking to use a louder tone.

Clarke doesn’t need to ask who she is.

‘They sent her away when they found out. To her aunt in America who had located a suitable magnate for her to marry. She got sick on the ship. Died a few days after arriving. Alone. Torn away from everything she had known or loved.’

Lexa swallows, thinking of the images of Costia’s deathbed anguish that still haunt her dreams. 

‘I blamed myself of course. She was sent away because of me. If we hadn’t…if she hadn’t met me she would have been safe. Alive.’

Clarke is quiet next to her, breathing steady.

‘I wonder sometimes if we don’t cling to our guilt as a twisted form of possession. If she died because of me, it means she was mine. Mine was the defining influence of her life.’

Her voice is neutral, as if discussing abstract theories of human psychology. She wonders if Clarke can feel the tremors at her confession, the way her jaw works to keep emotions at bay.

‘I thought I would never get over the pain of her passing, but I did.’

She turns now, feeling Clarke’s eyes on her.

‘How?’ Clarke asks.

‘By recognizing it for what it is: weakness. I could not change the past. I could not will alternative realities into being. But I could change the present. 

‘I learned a valuable lesson. Her death made me weak and vulnerable, incapable of rational though or action. I could not afford that luxury if I truly wanted to change things. The pain I felt made it clear that I couldn’t allow myself to feel it ever again.’

‘So what, you just stopped caring about people?’

Lexa met her eyes and nodded slowly.

‘It has made me stronger.’

Clarke is silent for a moment but does not look away.

‘I could never do that,’ she replies quietly.

Lexa is tempted to explain, to convince Clarke that it’s for the best. But when she looks into Clarke’s eyes her stomach clenches violently and she feels pain and fear and hope and anguish. She wishes she could bite her fist or rake her nails against her skin, something to stop the churning madness inside her. 

She swallows it down heroically and no, she cannot explain to Clarke how not to care because after years of numbness she suddenly cares so very much.

Instead she reaches down and places her hand on Clarke’s which was gripping at the bedsheets. Clarke looks down and exhales shakily. The touch seems to anchor them both. Lexa feels her own emotions quieten and she is content to just be. 

\-------

The night slips away slowly. They don’t speak. They don’t really sleep either though they aren’t quite awake. Thoughts mix with half-dreams of semi-consciousness. Clarke is the first to stir as darkness turns into the pale glow of morning.

‘We have to fight harder, Lexa,’ she says. ‘We’ve been far too distracted by all this. You present the bill in a week. We can collect far more support before then. And we should rally outside, show our presence.’

Lexa nods at her, lips twitching slightly in admiration.

‘We’re gonna win this, Lexa. We have to!’

With that she sprints from the bed and into the bathroom to wash the tears of the past away. Lexa leans back pensively. 

The dead are gone. The living are hungry.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: one of our dearly beloved protagonists is wounded in this chapter, but as I'm not a complete idiot it's nothing serious. My head continues to be a safe place for LGBTQ+.

Clarke throws herself into suffragist work, trying to make up for lost time. Everything seems to have come to a standstill since Finn's attack and she's determined to get their once well-oiled resistance machine moving again, even if she has to single-handedly push it forward. Lucius is due to present the new Bill this week and she'll be damned if they haven't collected an impressive number of signatures by then.

Sleep has mostly become a thing of the past and she's beginning to understand Lexa's need for barbiturates. But even the night hours are spent productively. She's decided to design new pamphlets using pictures as well as words. Her hope is that they will both draw more attention, and communicate their message to those who cannot read.

She's finished the first, 'A Woman's Mind.' It's a drawing of a woman's head containing representations of children and housework, but also science, medicine, politics, economics, mechanics, agriculture. The words, 'Stop deciding which parts we can use,' are written underneath.

The other shows a jail cell where a woman is imprisoned alongside a caricature of a criminal stereotype and a madman in a straightjacket. It reads, ‘Criminals and lunatics have no vote. Women are condemned to their fate at birth.’

She’s looking at another banner, one that’s been used in rallies recently.

For the long work day  
For the taxes we pay  
For the laws we obey  
We want something to say

She’s bent over the desk thinking of how to portray this one in art. Slavery. That’s what it is. Being a woman is essentially belonging to someone. She starts sketching the image in her mind when the door to the pharmacy opens. Her eyes shoot up to the clock, 11:20. It could be someone in desperate need of medication. Or something gone wrong in one of her more clandestine schemes. She stretches and makes to get up when the door to the back room opens and Raven walks in. 

She’s the last person Clarke expected to see. She’s made it all too clear since the execution that any comfort from Clarke is most unwelcome. Not that she’s one for accepting comfort at all. She’s yelled and raged and wept, but any who tried to soothe her have found themselves on the receiving end of her outbursts. Being around Clarke only seemed to make things worse for the girl and she’s avoided her like the plague. Why she’s here at this hour, when she’s almost certain to run into Clarke, is beyond her. 

Clarke stands but says nothing, not sure what to say and not wanting to scare her off. Raven crosses over to the desk and begins examining Clarke’s work.

‘These are good, Griffin,’ she says after her brief perusal.

Her tone is neutral. Not mocking or challenging. An olive branch. Clarke takes it gratefully. 

‘I was thinking if we had pictures it’ll draw people’s attention. Maybe drive the metaphors home.’

Raven nods.

‘I’ve been talking with O. I think we should post them on the trams. If they’re circulating they’ll be seen by more people before they’re torn down.’

‘That’s pretty smart,’ Clarke replies, impressed with the idea. ‘What’s the plan? Wait at the stops and put them up when they stop?’

‘Nah. That’ll draw attention to it. We’d no doubt get into scuffles and they’ll be ripped down before we get them up. I’m thinking at night when the trams are parked in the station. The locks are easy to jimmy. If a couple of us distract the guards, we can have them plastered all over in no time. I doubt the drivers will inspect them at 5 am when they can barely open their eyes.’

‘You’ve got it all figured out.’ 

Clarke tries to hold back her smile. It’s pretty awesome to have Raven back.

Raven shrugs in reply.

‘I’ll get it done with the Blakes and a couple others. 

‘Don’t give me that look,’ she says noticing Clarke’s eyeroll. ‘Bellamy wouldn’t dare step out of line on my watch.’

Clarke considers her menacing look and any argument she might have had is silenced. She can just imagine Bellamy squirming under its intensity. 

‘I’m also setting up a kind of alarm system around the meeting, just some pressure spots on the stones leading up to the door which will give us a bit of an advanced warning. It’ll be easy not to step on them if you know where they are, but strangers won’t really be able to avoid them.’

Clarke looks at her. As usual she in impressed by her friend’s ingenuity, but her eyes are questioning with a tinge of worry. She wants to ask how she’s doing, but isn’t sure what reaction it will elicit.

Raven rolls her eyes under her scrutiny.

‘I’m fine, Clarke. Stop looking at me like I might spontaneously combust at any moment. I just need…just let me get back to doing what I do best ok.’

Her lips are set, determined, eyes flashing with a kind of desperate stubbornness. Clarke nods, understanding the need to do anything besides sit around and deal with the grief. Who even knows whatever the hell ‘dealing with it’ is supposed to entail. 

‘Well, that’s a pretty long list,’ she replies, aiming for a bit of levity. ‘I’d be hard-pressed to find something you’re not good at.’

Raven scoffs.

‘Don’t I know it.’

‘I’ll take these to Monty tomorrow,’ Clarke says, turning back to the posters. ‘He’s offered to help with the printing.’

Raven nods.

‘Just lemme know when they’re ready so we can set our plan in motion. Your boy is presenting his Bill soon, right? We wanna give him all the help we can get.’

Clarke startles slightly at the reference to Lexa, though whether it’s the ‘your’ or ‘boy’ part that grates a little she can’t tell. She watches Raven breeze out of the room and turns her attention back to her drawing. 

\-------

The air seems different this morning, pulsing with excitement and expectation. Clarke brushes aside the idea that it’s just her own excitement projected on the world. This may well be a day remembered hundreds of years in the future as a turning point in securing the vote for women. The world cannot possibly be oblivious to such a milestone. 

She thinks of Lexa, what she might be feeling as she dons Lucius’s clothes and prepares to go before the House of Commons. Is she nervous? Scared? Somehow she can’t imagine Lexa getting ruffled. She is always so calm and put together. As if she was born to coolly challenge the world’s madness and prevail. She blushes a little at her thoughts. Where did that come from?

She hasn’t seen much of Lexa since the night of Finn’s execution, hasn’t been called to make any more pharmaceutical deliveries. Lucius did stop in briefly at their meetings a couple times to check for updates and Clarke could swear she felt Lexa’s eyes on her, probing slightly. Not intrusive. Almost…caring? Like it mattered to her if Clarke was doing ok behind her whirlwind-of-action façade. Clarke gave her slight, what she hoped were reassuring, nods, and Lexa had seemed satisfied. Stiff upper lip, right? Lexa had been the inspiration for that after all.

Today’s not the big day per se. It’s only the initial presentation of the Bill and it will be several more weeks before a vote is taken. After which it goes to the House of Lords to be voted on. But it still feels like something incredibly big to Clarke and she can’t contain her excitement. She can barely keep her mind focused on her tasks, wanting instead to be out, close to the action, even if she can’t actually see it. They’ve planned a rally for a little later when the MPs are leaving with the aim to catch them just after Lexa’s speech. Until then she’s been trying her best to be useful here, but Davies’s little huffs of frustration clue her in to just how much she’s failing. She decides to try harder to master her mind. After all, if she’s kicked out onto the street she won’t be much use to anyone.

Still the hours drag on and whether out of pity or exasperation at her inability to stop glancing at the clock, Davies waves her away with a little frown at 4:30 and she practically runs to the door, throwing on her coat as she leaves. She grabs the signs she prepared earlier, colorful paintings similar to the posters she had been working on, and hurries out. The MPs are only scheduled to leave at 5:15 and technically she has plenty of time, but she still feels like she won’t be able to relax until she’s standing in front of the building. 

She feels giddy as she trots down the street, soon joined by more enthusiastic women heading in the same direction. They seem to feed off each other’s enthusiasm, becoming more and more empowered by the minute. 

There are jeers too. Boos at their signs. Yelled accusations of their incompetence as women, their failures as wives and daughters. But these roll off harmlessly enough. They’ve heard this lines dozens of times before. Nothing can penetrate the shield of hope they are building. 

They arrive to find the rally at its peak, almost, it would seem, dying down. There is heavy police presence in the square and no one is bothering to wave their signs or chant the usual lines. The suffragists’ protest has become more of a chaotic gossip hub. She’s a little puzzled and tries to piece together the snippets of information she hears. It seems the ministers chose to break early to avoid the crowds. Something about anti-suffrage protests. She’s turning toward the word ‘stabbed’ when she’s grabbed roughly from behind by a strong pair of hands.

Lincoln.

Her relief at seeing him vanishes when she sees the terror in his eyes.

‘Come quick,’ he urges. ‘It’s Lexa.’

Clarke is a little stunned. She wants to ask why, what happened, wants answers to quell the dread pooling in her stomach. But Lincoln grabs her hand and pulls her through the crowd, using his bulk to bulldoze his way through.

‘Lincoln, wait,’ Clarke calls breathlessly when they’re nearing the edges of the crowd and conversation is possible without stopping. ‘What happened?’

‘She was stabbed.’

Clarke feels her stomach clench, tastes the bile in her mouth.

‘Just as she exited the House. Obviously a doctor is out of the question so you’re the next best thing. We went by the pharmacy but you’d already left…’

He’s still speaking when Clarke breaks into a run, pulling him along behind her. She realizes she has no idea where they’re actually going when Lincoln jerks her arm and points her in another direction. Her heart is pounding, matching the thuds of her feet on the cobblestones. She’s panting now and can’t tell if it’s from the sprint or the fear gripping her core at what she might find. She clenches her fists and tries to force air into her lungs. Her father’s steady voice comes back to her.

‘Calmly, Clarke. They’re already panicking and imagining the worst possible outcomes. We have to be their anchor. If they sense our unease it confirms their worst fears. You have to be steady, methodical. Focus on what you can do, what you can fix. Your actions will give them confidence.’

She wills herself to calm her breathing, to push down the acid that’s rising to her throat. Lexa deserves the best care possible and Clarke will be damned if she doesn’t get it. She somehow manages to steel herself for what’s ahead. Just in time too because Lincoln is opening the car door and motioning Clarke inside. 

Clarke does her best to swallow her gasp at the side of Lexa. She’s sprawled over two-thirds of the seat, hand clutching her jacket which is balled up and pressed firmly into her side. Her breaths are shallow and she turns her slightly-glazed eyes on Clarke as she enters the car. But what made Clarke gasp was the blood, so much blood. Staining Lexa’s crisp white shirt and soaking the grey jacket. 

‘Clarke,’ Lexa breathes, relief flooding her face at the sight of the girl.

Clarke swallows, bracing herself. She can do this.

‘Hey,’ she replies softly, cupping her cheek as gently as she can. ‘You’re gonna be ok. I’m gonna fix you right up.’

She’s happy to see her tie has been removed and a few buttons undone to facilitate breathing. Lincoln climbs into the front and they speed off. Clarke notices her medical kit on the floor and rummages around to find a clean towel.

‘Let me see,’ she instructs calmly. 

Lexa nods wordlessly and obediently lifts her hand. Clarke doesn’t bother with buttons, tearing through the shirt to reveal the wound. It’s in the right side of her abdomen, a deep ugly gash. Clarke fights the urge to bite her lip at the sight. She’s seen worse. It doesn’t make sense to be this affected. She quickly presses the towel to it, keeping pressure with both hands.

‘It doesn’t look too bad,’ she tells Lexa, in what she hopes is a reassuring voice. ‘I’ll sew you up nicely.’

The gash is far enough to the side that Clarke deduces it’s missed most of the major organs. She’ll inspect it a little more closely once they’ve arrived wherever they’re going.

‘You should’ve seen the other guy,’ Lexa replies with an attempt at bluster. 

Clarke is so relieved she almost laughs. 

In minutes they’ve arrived at Lucius’s town house. Lincoln shuts off the car and hurries around to the back. Clarke charges Lexa with keeping pressure on the wound once again as Lincoln effortlessly lifts her and carries her into the house. She snags her medical bag and follows them up to Lexa’s bedroom. 

Lincoln places her gently on the bed and hurries out to bring warm water per Clarke’s request. Clarke moves around, adjusting various lamps in the room to give her the best luminosity possible. She checks the contents of her bag, bandages, needles, thread, a scalpel, a shot of morphine, laying them out carefully on the table. She pushes aside the stethoscope to find her gloves. 

‘I’m just gonna go wash my hands. I’ll be right back ok.’

Lexa nods again and Clarke tries not to think about how she’s grown noticeably paler. She hurries into the bathroom and begins to thoroughly scrub both hands, focusing on her movements, letting her mind become absorbed in the comfort of procedure. After a few minutes she dabs them with a towel and slips on her gloves. She returns just as Lincoln is setting the water down next to the bed. 

‘I’ll have to clean it and make sure none of your organs were damaged. If it all looks good I’ll sew you up. I have morphine to numb the pain. Would you like some now? The examination can be a little painful.’ 

Clarke is surprised by the calm in her voice. Clings to it, willing the dam she built within herself to hold.

‘Later,’ Lexa replies weakly. ‘I want to know first.’

Despite her appearance her voice is calm, eyes focused and unafraid. Clarke nods and carefully lifts the towel. 

The bleeding has slowed, coming in little spurts that match Lexa’s heartbeat. Clarke takes the wet cloth and gently begins to clean it. Lexa’s stoic, gritting her teeth at the sting. Only once does she let a small hiss escape when Clarke has to press a little into the wound to remove some filaments from the towel. Clarke’s a little in awe at her strength. 

When she’s done she probes it gently, widening the cut to peer inside. The blade barely nicked her liver. Nothing to be worried about. Antibiotics should take care of any possible infection. She charges Lexa with reapplying pressure and begins preparing the needle for her morphine shot. 

She pauses when she hears several new voices in the entrance. 

‘What happened?’

It’s a deep, gravelly tone which sounds familiar although Clarke can’t quite place it.

She hears Lincoln’s voice reply as they move up the stairs. 

‘She was just coming out of the House when three assholes came up. There was no warning. Lexa was fast enough to block the first blow, think she broke the guys arm.’

Clarke looks incredulously at Lexa. She attempts an unaffected shrug, implying that breaking arms of would-be assassins is all in a days work. 

‘There were three of them. I couldn’t exactly be gentle.’

Clarke thinks of how Lexa handled her attacker in the alley and a small smile pulls at her lips.

‘She managed to dodge the second, landed him a kick in the back of the knee, but was just swinging back when the third guy stabbed her. She only managed to partially deflect it.’

‘And where were you?’

This voice is clear, authoritative, crisp with the overly-proper enunciation of nobility. Clarke is sure she hasn’t heard this one before and she freezes a little, thinking it might be Lord Woolcott. Lexa however remains unfazed as Clarke taps her arm lightly in search of a vein. 

‘I was getting the car,’ Lincoln replies in a low voice.

They’re nearing the door now and Clarke can hear his tone clearly. Shame? Guilt? 

‘You shouldn’t have left her.’

The high-born accent is tinged with anger now.

‘It was only for a minute,’ Lincoln replies, though Clarke can sense that he blames himself just as much as the other man does.

‘Leave him be, Marcus.’

Clarke is surprised at how Lexa manages to weave disapproving exasperation into her weak voice. 

The three men are in the room now, and Clarke pauses, needle poised just above Lexa’s arm, to appraise them. The one at the front, with greying, shoulder-length hair and a tailored suit, is no doubt Marcus. He is followed by Lincoln and, wonder of wonders, the burly disapproving butler. Gustus, was it?

‘I cannot stand the thought of you being unprotected, Lexa,’ Marcus replies, moving over to them.

Clarke sees concern fill his eyes as he sees her wound, watches him bury his fear behind a weak smile. She feels a surge of affection for him then.

‘Unprotected?’ 

Clarke swears Lexa scoffs.

‘You’ve never seen me fight.’

Both Clarke and Marcus are a little taken aback at the sheer bravado of the wounded girl. Clarke has never seen Lexa display much emotion, much less brag. It must be the blood loss. Which brings her attention back to her gloved hand currently pressing Lexa’s wound closed.

‘As lovely as this little chat is, we’re kind of in the middle of something here.’

Marcus looks down, slightly ashamed at keeping Lexa from her medical care. 

‘Well then, I trust you to patch her up nicely.’

His voice is neutral, but he gives Clarke an intense look and if she wasn’t already set on doing everything within her power to treat Lexa it would definitely have scared her into doing it. 

‘I’ll be back to check on you tomorrow,’ he says in a much more soothing voice.

Lexa gives him a faint nod and half smile as he squeezes her shoulder gently. 

Gustus turns silently to follow Marcus out of the room. He hasn’t said anything but his eyes remained fixed on Lexa’s the whole time and Clarke could feel his silent assessment throughout the exchange, of Lexa, of her, of her make-shift medical set-up. She feels certain that if anything seemed even the slightest bit off to him he would not hesitate to interfere on his mistress’s behalf. Lincoln lingers only to ask if Clarke needs anything else before following the other men outside, leaving the door slightly ajar so Clarke can call without rising if necessary. 

Clarke sighs a little as the room becomes silent again. She turns towards Lexa who’s been watching her. Her face is paler, eyes darkened in what Clarke realizes is a silent struggle to bear her pain bravely. A fierce protectiveness grips her chest. She won’t let anything happen to her. Not on her watch.

‘Alright, Lexa, I’m gonna give you the morphine now, ok?’

Lexa nods; quiet, unwavering trust in her eyes. 

‘Not too much,’ she whispers. ‘I don’t want to be out that long.’

Clarke nods reassuringly.

‘Just enough for me to stitch you up then.’

Lexa tilts her head affirmatively.

‘Hey,’ Clarke whispers, ‘I got you okay?’

She wishes she could brush back her hair, squeeze her shoulder, just some kind of reassuring gesture, but her hands are both occupied. She feels a sudden strange urge to press her forehead against Lexa’s, to show her she’s here. It strikes her as far too intimate and she hurriedly dismisses the impulse. She turns back to her task, finding the vein and expertly slipping in the needle. Per Lexa’s request she gives her only half a dose. She presses a cotton swab to the vein, hand lingering on Lexa’s arm far longer than necessary. Clarke holds Lexa’s eyes until she watches them slowly close, head lulling slightly to the side. Then she sets to work.

She is thankful for the practice she’s had in the clinic of late. Her sutures are careful and neat and she’s finished in no time. She gently cleans the cut again before covering it, taping the bandages to Lexa’s smooth skin. She looks peaceful, eyes closed, breathing even. Clarke rummages in her bag again and gives Lexa a shot of antibiotics. That ought to eliminate any chance of infection.

Then she stops for a minute to consider the sleeping girl. Her shirt is torn and blood-soaked and her dark pants are splattered with blood and mud. Her shoes are still on, forgotten in the rush to get her treated. Clarke feels wrong leaving her like that. She takes her scissors and cuts off the rest of her shirt, gently lifting Lexa to remove it from under her. With the damp cloth she cleans off any remaining smudges of blood from her abdomen, trying not to notice the ripple of muscles under her fingers. She carefully removes her shoes and pants, thankful for the relative warmth of the night. 

Then her eyes fix on the tight bind around her chest. That can’t be good to sleep in. She feels a slight flush in her cheeks, but is determined to make Lexa as comfortable as possible. She is a medical professional. This is her patient. She owes her the best care she can give her. As respectfully as she can manage. 

She takes her scissors and begins cutting through the wrap, fighting to keep her eyes chastely on her own hands, to ignore the blur of Lexa’s small, shapely breasts, the heat that rises from her body. She realizes she’s forgotten to exhale and her breath comes out shaky, as if filled with the tremors she’s willed from her hands. She slips the wrap slowly out from under Lexa’s body, taking care to move her as little as possible. When she’s done, she covers Lexa with the bedsheets, pausing to brush a strand from her brow before she can stop herself. 

‘You’re gonna be ok,’ she whispers. 

She the proceeds to pack up her supplies and dim the lamps. She can hear the murmur of voices downstairs and imagines they must all be anxiously awaiting news. She follows the voices to the sitting room, and they fall quiet when she enters. 

‘How is she?’ 

There’s a little tremor of fear in Lincoln’s tone.

‘She is well,’ Clarke replies. ‘As I suspected the wound did not puncture any organs and should heal steadily now that I’ve stitched it up.

His eyes close in relief and she sees some of the tension leave his body as he sinks into the sofa. 

‘So, you must be the famous Clarke.’

She turns to find Marcus watching her, a small smile on his face. 

‘Oh, I’m sorry. Lord Kane, Clarke Griffin. Clarke, Lord Kane.’

Lincoln’s voice is tired and he doesn’t bother standing to make the introductions. 

‘Pleasure to meet you, Lord Kane,’ Clarke says in a tone that reflects duty rather than pleasure. 

‘Likewise. And Marcus, please. I’ve heard so much about you.’

Clarke’s eyes narrow a little as she considers this. He must have heard it from Lexa. The fact that he’s here, in Lucius’s house after an attack on Lucius whom he knows to be Lexa shows that Lexa trusts him. The same as Gustus, however bewildering that might be after the icy welcomes she’s always received from him. If Lexa trusts them then so can she.

‘All good things, don’t worry,’ Marcus continues with an attempt at charm, and Clarke realizes she hasn’t yet replied. 

She offers him a small smile of acknowledgement. 

‘I wish we were meeting under different circumstances and I am sure we will do so again. As it is, Lexa has told me of your value to the cause and I am grateful to have someone like you on our side.’

‘Thank you, Lo-Marcus.’

She can’t help being a little flattered. Whoever this lord is he obviously thinks highly of her, which must be a reflection of Lexa’s opinion as she’s his primary source of information.

‘Well, it’s been a long night and it wouldn’t do for me to stay any longer. May I offer you a ride home, Clarke?’

‘I’m not going anywhere,’ Clarke replies, perhaps more forcefully than she had intended. 

Gustus and Lincoln share a silent look.

‘I’m not leaving,’ she continues when they say nothing. ‘She needs to be monitored and neither of you are qualified to do that. 

She sees silent acceptance in their eyes. They’re not about to argue. After a final farewell from Lord Kane and his promise to return in the morning, Lucius and Gustus look in on Lexa before retiring to their rooms for a few hours of sleep. 

Clarke checks on Lexa again, happy to see she appears to be sleeping peacefully. She shifts her position slightly so that there will be less strain on her abdomen. When she presses her hand to her forehead to check her temperature she slows as her fingers brush Lexa’s skin. She lingers, stroking her face softly, thinking of the strength beneath those beautiful features. 

‘You get better, you hear.’

It’s a whisper, maybe a little choked, a little pleading.

‘I don’t know what I-,’ a gulp, ‘what we’d do without you.’

She doesn’t know how long she stays there, only that she eventually kicks off her shoes and curls into a ball on the chair, hand circling Lexa’s.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope that wasn't too bad. In my mind Clarke having medical training means she can actually do more than spread water around with a cloth. 
> 
> I'm off to New York for a week (to see Cate Blanchett on stage no less), and I've also decided to write a one-shot (or two, time permitting) for Clexa week. So it is with a heavy heart that I announce that Suffrage will go on a short, two-week hiatus, after which regular updates will resume. I'm pretty excited about the one-shots though, so if you enjoy this keep your eyes open for them either here or on tumblr. 
> 
> As always, thanks for reading, commenting, bookmarking, leaving kudos. You're all lovely!


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lexa continues to heal, a new foe reveals themselves, and a plan for discovering their next move is hatched.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we're back!!! Lots of Clexa in this one.
> 
> Thank you all for your patience. New York was amazing and seeing Cate Blanchett in the flesh nearly killed me. 
> 
> I hope you all enjoyed Clexa week as much as I did.

Lexa's eyelids are heavy and she keeps them closed in favor of her other senses. Her mouth is dry and she realizes how thirsty she is. She's lying on her back. Odd. She never falls asleep like that. Her limbs feel weighted, cumbersome, more burden than asset. They're aching from the unfamiliar position and she takes a deep breath to try to shift her weight, nearly crying out at the sharp pain in her right side. Her eyes fly open as she remembers. 

The room is dim, pale sunlight only just breaking through the curtains. She tenses slightly at the realization of the hand covering hers, eyes flicking nervously to the chair.

_Clarke._

The blonde is curled awkwardly in the chair, legs tucked in, head lolling over the back at an angle that makes Lexa wince in sympathy. Her arm is stretched to the bed, hand resting over Lexa's, not squeezing, but grounding. She looks peaceful while she sleeps, despite the little crease of worry in her forehead. Lexa smiles slightly.

_She stayed._

Her instincts were right yesterday. Her first thought was of Clarke. _Get Clarke._ Of course she knew of her apprenticeship so it made sense. That's why her mind went there. Right? 

She wonders how much sleep she got. What did she do in the dark hours while Lexa slept? Why did she stay?

Her thigh muscles are becoming uncomfortably numb and Lexa tries to shift slightly without waking Clarke. No such luck. At her first twitch Clarke's eyes flutter before shooting open. Her body follows, head jolting in a way that can only have made her neck stiffer. Lexa feels her hand being squeezed gently.

'Hey. How are you feeling?'

Clarke's voice is hoarse, a little croaky from sleep. Lexa feels herself smile again.

'Hey.'

Her voice isn't much better. 

'Pretty good. It was just a scratch right.'

Clarke frowns a little.

'Bit more than a scratch. I gave you eight stitches.'

'Straight ones I hope.'

Clarke looks ready to defend her sewing skills with her last breath until she notices the twinkle in Lexa's eye.

'Well, you didn't want all your morphine so I figured I'd take a hit. Things got a little blurry after that so I'm not quite sure.'

She seems pleased at the way Lexa's mouth quirks up.

'Shall we have a look?'

Lexa is suddenly very aware that she's all but naked under the bedsheets. She quickly shuts down any thoughts of how she got there, knowing a neutral expression would be out of the question if she considered them. Her heart starts racing in anticipation of Clarke's next move. How exactly is she planning on accessing the wound?

Clarke appears nonplussed, simply lifting the covers slightly on the side to expose her stomach while allowing Lexa to keep her chest covered. Lexa kicks herself for imagining she would do anything else. She waits for Clarke's hands to begin removing the bandage. 

Nothing happens. 

She looks up to Clarke's face and is surprised to find her eyes on her skin instead, tracing the curve of her hip to where it disappears into her undergarments. She feels herself growing hot under her gaze. Objectively, she knows she's beautiful. She's used to being looked at by men and women alike—approvingly, lustfully, enviously—but not like this. Not in a quiet, inadvertent way as if, as if she can't help but look, can't help the way her eyes are drawn, the way her lips part slightly. 

And not by Clarke. Clarke who is...

Just then Clarke's eyes look up and a hot flush creeps up her neck at being caught staring. She turns quickly and begins loosening the tape. Her hands are sure and skilled and she soon has the bandage off revealing a neat line of sutures underneath.

'Well it seems your skill is certainly not under dispute,' Lexa says, a smile in her voice if not on her lips. 

Clarke smiles back and begins preparing to clean it. This time her hands flutter lightly when they touch Lexa's skin and Lexa feels her muscles tighten under the touch, a breath catching in her throat. 

Clarke pauses. Then proceeds as if she noticed nothing, carefully cleaning the cut as Lexa watches quietly.

'It seems to be healing well so far,' she says. 'There's no infection. I'll bring you by some antibiotics later to be safe.'

Lexa nods.

'It isn't my first wound,' she says dismissively. 'I'm familiar with treatment.'

Clarke's eyes narrow, crease in her brow furrowing as she puts on a fresh bandage.

'You like putting yourself in danger then.'

The words sound accusatory,¬ but the tone isn't. It's a statement. A realization. 

'I don't 'like' it,' Lexa replies calmly. 'I simply recognize that it cannot be avoided sometimes.'

Clarke swallows, pressing the tape in place.

'You scared me,' she says.

It's a whisper, an admission she'd much rather not make.

'There was so much blood. At first I couldn't see how bad it was. I know I'm trained to deal with these things but...'

She swallows again and Lexa feels her stomach tighten at the thought of putting Clarke through this.

'Clarke.'

She waits for Clarke to look at her before continuing.

'I do not take it lightly. I have trained, prepared. I am as careful as I can be. But some things we cannot control.'

Clarke nods and looks down again. It seems she both needs to hear it and feels uncomfortable making Lexa say it, admitting her fear.

'Thank you for coming,' Lexa continues in a quiet voice. 'For staying.'

Clarke meets her gaze. Lexa wonders if she can see, if she understands what it meant to her.

'Anytime. Just don't make a habit of it.'

There's teasing in her voice now and Lexa relaxes a little at the sound.

'I have to go,' Clarke says. 'I have work today and they're probably wondering where the hell I am.'

'Right,' Lexa replies, shifting into a more upright position.

'Could you ask Gustus to bring me some water. And maybe, er'

She pauses, looking down to where her hands are still holding the sheet over her chest. Clarke blushes hard.

'Could you get me a shirt from the wardrobe?' 

Clarke spins on her heel and hurries over to it, pausing at the row of starched shirts and tailored jackets she finds inside. There are several dresses too. She hesitates.

'Any one is fine,' Lexa calls from the bed.

They all look identical anyway. Clarke takes one, careful not to wrinkle it, and carries it over to the bed.

'Should I...'

Now it's Lexa's turn to blush.

'I can manage,' she replies.

'Right, well, strict bedrest for you, my lady. Doctor’s orders. You should eat too, you lost quite a lot of blood.'

Lexa smiles.

'Yes, doctor.'

It's almost a tease except that Lexa's eyes are soft and admiring and Clarke chest swells at the compliment.

'I'll be back to check on you later, bring you some pills.'

Lexa nods again and Clarke comes closer to say goodbye. Shaking feels a little formal. She makes to kiss her cheek but seems to think it ridiculous halfway. She settles for light a squeeze of her shoulder.

'Get better,' she says softly, before gathering her things and leaving quickly.

Lexa feels the press of her fingers long after she leaves.

\-------

'Clarke, what the hell?'

Clarke turns as Octavia bursts into the pharmacy, all exasperated anger.

'O! I'm so sorry. It was an emergency. Lucius...'

'I know. Lincoln had the decency to tell us. Thankfully, ‘cause we were about ready to tear down the town looking for you.'

'He...oh. What did he say?'

She's cautious now, not sure how much Octavia knows and not wanting to give anything away.

'That Lucius was stabbed, which the whole country knew by then, and that you were off playing doctor.'

'You were looking for me?'

'Bloody hell, Clarke! You disappear in the middle of a rally that got violent. What did you expect? Bell organized a small army to look for you. Raven searched half of London by herself. We woulda come over to kill you when we heard if we hadn't been so exhausted.'

'Balls! I'm sorry, O. I was...He was bleeding like crazy. It's scary when it's someone you...know.'

Care about? She was gonna say care about?

'Yeah, I guess you had a decent enough excuse,' Octavia concedes. 'So how is he?'

'He's ok. Seems he deflected the stab so it didn't hit anything vital.'

Octavia's eyes widen a little at this.'

'Fuck, Clarke. Is he like an undercover super-warrior or something? Only I saw his attackers, there were bloody three of them, and they still ended up in bad shape. He's got moves! You wouldn't expect it, would you? I mean, he's more like one of those small, brainy types you know?'

Clarke chuckles a little, trying to cover her momentary panic at the word 'undercover'. 

'He's a gentleman. I think they all learn some fighting skills.'

'He don't fight like no gentleman I've seen, miss.'

Clarke shakes her head at the cockney accent.

'Them folk get ol inta their trainin, bu is jus fah show, innit? But not our Mr. Woods. No sir.

'Hey, do you think he'll teach me?' Octavia’s return to her normal voice shows Clarke she means it. 

Clarke laughs a little now, wondering how Lucius would react, how amusement might dance in Lexa's eyes at the thought, which she'd struggle not to show.

‘Isn’t your ‘beloved’ some big army fellow?’ Clarke asks teasingly. 

‘You’re right!’ Octavia replies, eyes widening. ‘Do you think he fights like that too?’

‘Well, I’d hope so, considering he’s in charge of training new recruits.’

‘Right.’

Octavia grows suddenly pensive. 

‘That’s a good thing. It’ll give him a better chance if he goes off to war.’

Clarke steps closer, puts a hand on her shoulder.

‘Hey, we don’t know if there will even be a war. 

Octavia nods, shrugging it off.

‘I gotta run, can’t be late for my…’

The door bangs open revealing a disheveled Raven.

‘Where is she?’

On seeing Clarke, she crosses the room and presses her into a hug. 

‘Don’t you know that you disappearing into an angry mob is bad for my health?’ she asks into Clarke’s hair.

‘I’ll bear that in mind,’ Clarke replies, squeezing her tightly.

‘See that you do, Griffin. I don’t really need my beauty sleep but it can’t hurt.’

Clarke chuckles in agreement.

‘Right. Work. C’mon, O.’

\-------

The day seems to drag on after that and Clarke struggles to keep her brain functioning through the haze. Davies wisely keeps her away from any work with patients and she’s left womanning the front desk and dozing between clients. At last it’s 5 o’clock and Davies gives her leave to go check on Lucius. Clarke hurriedly restocks her medical bag. She hesitates, then stuffs in a spare pair of undergarments in case she spends the night again. 

When she reaches the house Gustus lets her in with a gruff greeting and what could almost pass for approval. It’s void of disapproval at any rate and Clarke takes that as a win. She makes her way unescorted up to Lexa’s room, pleased to see her still in bed reading a law book. She looks up when Clarke enters, giving her a genuine smile.

‘Hello, Clarke.’

‘Hey,’ Clarke replies, feeling herself smile in reply. ‘I just came by to check on you. Glad to see you’re still in bed.’

Lexa rolls her eyes at this.

‘Did you charge Gustus with my imprisonment before leaving? The man has been insufferable! He very nearly insisted on helping me pee.’

Clarke’s smile widens and she finds herself growing infinitely more affectionate towards the butler.

‘You need to heal, Lexa,’ she replies admonishingly.

‘My body needs to heal,’ Lexa huffs. ‘I can’t will it to happen. I have other things to worry about.’

Clarke shakes her head and sets her bag down. She begins to lay out her supplies.

‘May I check to see if your body has staged a coup in my absence?’

‘You may.’

Lexa tries valiantly to keep a back her smile.

‘In the event that an uprising is discovered I expect to be informed immediately.’

‘As you wish, my lady.’

They’re both smiling now. Clarke likes the warmth that spreads through her body as a result.

She begins unbuttoning the lower half of Lexa’s shirt, biting her lip a little as her skin is slowly revealed underneath. It’s perfectly natural, she tells herself. She appreciates art, and Lexa’s body could have been sculpted by a genius. How could she not appreciate it? 

She pulls the shirt to the side, fingers accidentally brushing Lexa’s abdomen as she does. Lexa’s muscles tighten again and Clarke finds herself drawn to the ripples beneath her skin. 

Art. Art appreciator. Normal. 

She remembers Lexa watching her this morning and hurries on before she’s caught again. She’s pleased to find the wound closing nicely, no sign of infection. 

‘I am happy to report that your body seems to be behaving as it should. No doubt due to the swift retribution its commander is sure to unleash if it misbehaves.’

She looks up to see Lexa raising an eyebrow at her statement.

‘I am pleased to hear it. I take no pleasure in violence,’ she replies.

Clarke finishes changing the bandage and Lexa takes over buttoning her own shirt as she begins putting things away.

‘So I brought a change for tomorrow. That way I don’t have to rush out at the crack of dawn.’

Lexa pauses at this and the silence in the room feels heavy. 

‘That is very kind of you, Clarke,’ Lexa replies at last, ‘however, I must return to the estate this evening. I cannot have my husband sending out search parties.’

‘Oh…right. Of course.’

Clarke wants to kick herself, wants to crawl under the bed or disappear or turn back time and take back her statement. It was ridiculous! Presumptuous. Even if Lexa wasn’t leaving she’s not in danger any more. Clarke’s presence would have been completely unnecessary. 

‘You’re well out of the woods, in any case,’ Clarke adds hastily. ‘It’s not as if you need to be observed.’

‘I do appreciate your concern, Clarke.’

Lexa’s tone brings Clarke’s eyes up to meet hers again. There’s something in them, something that makes Clarke feel less foolish, maybe not foolish or presumptuous at all, maybe like she was right in wanting to stay. She feels warm again. 

‘I wish I could stay,’ Lexa says quietly.

Clarke’s eyes narrow.

‘You’re not gonna be up and about pretending you’re not hurt, right? I’m serious about your body needing time to heal.’

Lexa sighs.

‘Alexandra Woolcott is not wounded. To appear to be would only put my secret at risk. But,’ she adds quickly before Clarke can protest, ‘she is prone to headaches and will spend time resting. Gustus will be there, he is good at covering for me.’

Clarke opens her mouth to say something, but nods instead. There isn’t much to say. As usual, Lexa’s logic is sound.

‘What about your treatment?’

‘Gustus can change the bandage. He has some first-aid training.’ 

Lexa pauses, then continues in a far more hesitant voice.

‘Would you come? Tomorrow I mean, to the estate. I should be alone in the evening and I would appreciate a more expert opinion.’

‘Of course,’ Clarke says, then wonders if the words left her mouth a little too quickly.

Lexa doesn’t seem to notice. 

‘You can use the back entrance. I’ll tell Gustus to expect you.’

‘I’ll come after work.’

Just then Gustus enters to inform her that the car is waiting. Clarke realizes that Lexa needs to change back into Lady Woolcott’s clothes and would probably appreciate some privacy. 

‘Right, that’s my cue,’ she says. 

Her smile feels a little forced this time.

‘Thank you, Clarke. For everything.’ 

Her eyes meet Lexa’s again and the sincerity in them feels almost too powerful, like it could suck Clarke right in and she’d never get out. She looks down quickly.

‘Anytime,’ Clarke replies.

\-------

Lexa clutches the arm rest and sucks in a breath, hoping it’s discreet enough not to be noticed. Damn this luncheon and its prattling ladies and their tight corsets. She tried to choose a loose one, but it still presses on her wound uncomfortably. She’s trying to move as little as possible which has made her stiff and achy. Any wrong move and a shot of pain rings through her core, like the one she just felt. Her smile is starting to get a little stale. She looks up at the clock, another half hour or so and she can make a polite excuse and leave. She can make it till then.

‘Oh, Alexandra, I’ve been meaning to ask you. What’s all this about your cousin getting into a brawl outside the house of commons?’

Lady Nia Albin’s voice is, as always, smoothly pleasant, but Lexa hears the bite behind her words.

‘I’d hardly call being attacked a brawl,’ she replies neutrally, but there’s a chill in her eyes as she turns to face the older woman.

‘Attacked? But who was attacked? I heard he put two men in hospital with broken bones. That is hardly becoming of a gentleman.’

Lexa feels her blood boil as a fresh jab of pain steals her breath. Leave it to Nia to make a near-fatal experience sound like her fault.

‘No, I suppose a gentleman would’ve let himself get stabbed in the heart and then attempt to die charmingly,’ Lexa replies caustically.

Several of the ladies gasp and bring their hands to their chests. Lexa has to fight hard to keep her composure.

‘Come, come, Alexandra, no need to be vulgar,’ Nia replies with a hint of impatience. ‘I’m only saying that ever since Lucius has affiliated himself with that rabble we’ve heard nothing but bad news. I don’t see why he bothers, really. Us women are perfectly content with our lives. We don’t need the vote. It’ll only upset things. Your husband has the good sense to oppose the vote and I can’t imagine how embarrassing it must be for him to be related to Lucius Wood. I should think, as a good wife, you would be utterly embarrassed by your cousin’s carrying on and proceed to denounce him publicly.’

‘My cousin is free to do as he pleases, as my husband does, as indeed every man in the country does.’

There’s a glimmer of something in Nia’s eyes. Malice? Triumph? Lexa tried her best to remain neutral, but perhaps there was just a hint of bitterness in her voice. The pain is making it harder to control her emotions.

‘My dear girl.’

Her tone is now cloyingly sympathetic.

‘It’s hardly your fault, what without a mother to raise you properly and teach you what is expected of a lady. It’s no wonder you have difficulty knowing how to be a nobleman’s wife.’

Lexa sees red. 

‘My mother,’ she replies quietly, voice trembling slightly as she fights to keep it neutral, ‘taught me everything I need to know about being a lady. She would be proud of the woman I have become.’

She would. Lexa knows this. Well, she believes it anyway. Her mother was strong and fearless, she would not want a daughter who cowers.

‘I’m sure she would dear,’ Nia coos.

The patronization turns Lexa’s stomach.

‘You’re still young. In time you will realize there is a certain order to things and it’s best not to upset it. Fortunately, there are those who will preserve it long enough for you to come to that realization.’

Lexa meets her eyes again, suddenly alert. What is she hinting at? She knows Nia is cunning and devious. If she’s planning something…

‘Oh my, is that the time?’

Susan Bransford’s interruption is most welcome.

‘All this talk of politics and we’ve wiled the afternoon away. I really must be getting back.’

Lexa seizes the moment to make her own excuses and before long is in the safety of her car, chewing on all the Nia has said and hatching a plan to uncover her schemes.

\-------

Lexa exhales tiredly as she enters her quarters, hands already reaching behind her back to untie her dress. She’d ask Mary for help, only she can’t risk her seeing the bandage. She’s a sweet girl but Lexa has no way of knowing who the girl talks to and would much prefer giving her as little to talk about as possible.

‘Can I help you?’

She spins around at the hesitant offer from the corner of the room. 

‘Clarke, you startled me,’ she replies in a jittery tone.

‘I didn’t mean to.’

Clarke rises quickly from the chair she was sitting in.

‘Gustus let me in. He said it would raise less questions if I waited for you here. I thought he would’ve told you.’

‘Oh no, that’s absolutely fine,’ Lexa replies, mastering her voice once more.

Clarke crosses the room to stand near her. 

‘Here, let me.’

She’s no lady’s maid and the strings which wrap around and tie in intricate patterns take her a few moments to figure out. She lets out a little sound of triumph when it finally comes lose and Lexa smiles as she steps out of the dress. She’s left standing in her corset, chemise, garter and stockings. Clarke finds herself staring again. She’s never seen clothing this elaborate up close and lets her eyes wander along the curves and clasps. (Not Lexa’s body. No, she has far too much propriety to be looking at that.)

‘I think I need a bit more help,’ Lexa says, breaking her reverie.

Clarke begins tackling the fastenings on her corset and in considerably less time has it off as well.

‘I seem to be getting better at this.’

She blushes furiously as soon as the words leave her mouth. Did she really just say she’s getting better at undressing Lexa? 

‘Although you know, you really shouldn’t be wearing corsets yet,’ she adds quickly, tone admonishing, businesslike. ‘Restricted blood flow and unnecessary pressure are not ideal.’

‘I know, Lexa sighs, moving behind the screen to remove her garter and stockings. ‘I couldn’t get out of today’s luncheon.’

Clarke is left to appraise the room. It’s a little more modest than the rest of the house. The furniture is plush but tasteful. Clarke always thought four-poster beds seemed a bit stuffy, but the curtains are tied back and it seems airy and cozy. She’s tempted to test the mattress and see how a lady sleeps. Just then Lexa comes out, wearing a fresh chemise and knee-length underwear.

‘If I may be so bold, you seem to have an alarming affection for candles, Lady Woolcott.’

Lexa blushes and looks around, as if seeing the candles for the first time and apparently deciding that, yes, twentysomething candles may be a bit excessive. 

‘I cannot risk ruining my eyes, Miss Griffin, not with all the reading I do.’

‘No, that would be a crime.’

Lexa looks at her then, latching onto something in her tone. Clarke repeats the line in her head. Was she flirting? If Lexa was a man it would definitely be considered flirting. And Lexa being Lexa… She pushes the thought away.

Lexa lies on the bed as she’s done the two previous nights and Clarke carefully lifts her chemise. Her breath catches right on cue. She’s done this enough times for it not to, but it does anyway. She slowly removes her bandage and the urge to touch, to run her fingertips along her abdomen, is stronger than ever. What would Lexa do, she wonders, if she did touch?

‘Clarke.’

Once again she’s jolted from her musings by Lexa’s voice.

‘I have a favor to ask.’

She has Clarke’s full attention now.

‘I had lunch with Lady Nia Albin today and something is not right. She was talking about Lucius, about women not knowing their place. I think she’s planning something. She’s a dangerous opponent, not the kind we want to be blindsided by, and I need to find a way to discover what she’s up to.’

Clarke nods to show she’s listening.

‘I’m going to a party in a few days, as Lucius. I was wondering if you would accompany me. Nia’s son will be there and he may know something. It is unlikely that anyone will tell me anything as Lucius’s stance is well-known, but they might tell you.’

‘Why would anyone tell me anything?’

‘Well, you are…’ 

Clarke sees a blush creep onto Lexa’s cheeks.

‘You’re a beautiful woman, Clarke. Charming, interesting, funny. I am willing to bet that the men will be tripping over themselves to get into your good graces. If you asked a few questions I am sure we’d learn something.’

Clarke doesn’t know whether to swoon over Lexa’s compliments or laugh at the thought that she thinks she’ll be the belle of the ball. 

She settles for, ‘I don’t have anything to wear to something like that.’

‘Don’t worry, I’ll bring something over to Lucius’s house for you. 

‘Does that mean you’ll come?’ Her voice is low. Hesitant. Hopeful.

Clarke has to admit that she’s excited and intrigued at the thought. A night of dress-up, undercover in some nobleman’s home, collecting vital information while in Lexa’s company? She honestly can’t think of anything she’d rather do.

‘I would be delighted to accompany you, Mr. Woods.’

Lexa laughs. 

‘See, you’re practically a gentlewoman already.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is fun to be had ahead!
> 
> Work's a bit more demanding at this time of year so I might only be able to update once a week from here on out. If I do manage an extra chapter here and there you'll be the first to know. We're about halfway through the story now. 
> 
> As always, thanks for reading, commenting, kudos-ing. You make the journey worth it.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Clarke joins Lexa in an undercover mission of sorts.

'Wait, so you're going to a ball?'

'It's not a ball,' Clarke replies, rolling her eyes. 'It's a party.'

'Right. A party in a fancy house with nobles and snobs in dinner jackets and evening gowns. Sounds awfully like a ball to me, Cinderella. You even have your very own Prince Charming to escort you,' Raven adds pointedly.

'I...He's not my...It's not like that. We're going to try to get information.'

Clarke focuses on preparing the exam room, trying to ignore the flutter she felt at her friend's comment.

'Uh huh,' Raven replies, loosely swinging her legs from her perch on the table. 'I too blush fiercely when talking about undercover missions with friends. Isn't that right, O?' she adds as Octavia walks through the door. 

'Absolutely,' Octavia replies without missing a beat. ‘What exactly are we discussing?'

The last sentence is uttered in a stage-whisper to Raven.

'Oh, Clarke's infatuation with one Lucius Woods, naturally. And the fact that he has now asked her to a ball.'

Octavia's eyes grow wide.

'He hasn't asked me...It isn't a ball,' Clarke huffs. 'He wants me to come and see if I can get information on Lady Albin's latest scheme.'

'Mmh, methinks the lady doth protest too much,' Raven replies sagely.

Clarke groans.

'I'm with Raven. As an expert on infatuation I have to say that you present all the classic symptoms; the ruddy pigmentation in your cheeks, the tendency to smile gratuitously, a certain air of detachment to your friends and other duties, and of course there is the vehement denial.'

Raven nods seriously.

'How bad is it doctor?' she asks.

'Hmm, well, I haven’t known any at such a late stage to recover. I think our best option is to make her as comfortable as possible until the end.'

Clarke shakes her head and fights back a smile

'Honestly, the world is lucky neither of you took up medicine.'

'Is it? I rather think I'd be an excellent doctor if I bothered to try.'

'But speaking of love,'

'Oh? Is it love already?' Raven asks gleefully.

'Don't be daft. I mean Octavia. What's happening with you and Lincoln?'

‘We’re…enjoying each other’s company,’ she replies evasively.

Raven dramatically rolls her eyes.

‘You two are gross,’ she pronounces. ‘Seems I’ll be the only one truly free at the end of our grand fight for freedom.’

Clarke chuckles despite herself. Raven couldn’t be more wrong though. She wouldn’t be saying such ridiculous things if she knew Lexa was a woman. Well, the thought itself isn’t ridiculous of course. It makes perfect sense for Lexa. But Clarke likes boys. 

Her mind wanders to the curve of Lexa’s neck, the perfect angle of her jawline, her full, pouty lips. Well yes, Lexa’s aesthetically pleasing, which artistically-minded Clarke inevitably appreciates. But there’s the way the low, cadence of her voice makes her feel funny, the way the air seems richer, heavy around her, the way she’d do almost anything to capture one of her rare, beautiful smiles.

But beauty is more than just looks, right? Clarke is just drawn to the entire package. It’s perfectly normal.

‘…wouldn’t you say, Clarke?’

She looks up suddenly, catching Raven and Octavia staring at her.

‘Oh, Clarkus hasn’t heard a thing we’ve said, O. No doubt meditating on Lucius’s mesmerizing, green eyes.’

Well, no. Strictly speaking she was thinking about other features. But now that Raven mentions it, they are mesmerizing. See, Raven notices it too. It’s definitely just artistic appreciation. Nothing romantic whatsoever.

‘Clarke? Do we need to get your head examined?’

‘Oh, no. Just thinking I have nothing to wear.’

Octavia scoffs. 

‘I’m sure your fairy godmother will cover that too.’

\--------

Lexa is pacing nervously in the entrance hall. She already took almost 20 extra minutes getting ready, making sure there wasn’t a single crease in her clothes or scuff on her shoes, tying and retying her bow tie, adjusting her hair. She tries to force the breath deep into her abdomen as Anya taught her, willing herself to calm down. Is Clarke ok upstairs? Did she figure out how everything goes? Does it fit? Should she check on her?

No. Clarke is fine. If she needed help she would call. Lexa had had everything measured beforehand, sending her tailor to collect Clarke’s measurements. She showed Clarke each piece and offered to help. Only, Clarke blushed and shook her head with a little laugh, assuring Lexa that she had dressed herself her entire life and was determined to do so now. So Lexa is left waiting.

Which shouldn’t be a problem. She’s learned patience. Tonight is just one more event, one more ruse, one more evening of smiling and drinking and shaking the right hands. One more step towards the goal. If Clarke happens to be there too, well it’s simply because they are on the same team and Lexa needs her. Well, not Lexa per se, they need her. The collective ‘they’. Womankind if you will. It’s just business. 

Breathe in. Deep. Focus on the goal. Get control of these damn nerves, Lexa.

\-------

Clarke spent the first few minutes after Lexa had left the room just looking at the clothes. There was a corset, which thankfully had clasps in the front so she could put it on herself. Then stockings and a simple garter to hold them up. And the dress! She kept running her fingers over the silky fabric, reveling in the way it slid over her skin. 

She hurried to wash up in the adjacent washroom and is now struggling to fit the corset over her chemise. The clasps are tricky and it’s hard to suck in her breath, press the sides together, and hook them in place all at once. She’d always thought lady’s maids to be a bit extravagant, but after five minutes in what feels like a losing battle with the garment, she’s beginning to see their value. She almost calls for Lexa, but the thought of admitting defeat, of Lexa seeing her in this state, of her hands against Clarke’s body as she helps her, well, the heat that spreads across her skin at the thought tells her it’s a bad idea. Not that she wasn’t in a similar position with her treatment of Lexa’s wounds. But that was…different. It was an emergency.

With a little sound of triumph Clarke finally hooks it into place and spends a full minute looking at herself in the mirror, admiring the way the corset offsets her already voluptuous breasts. She allows herself a little smirk of satisfaction. There’s no denying that she’s always been proud of them.

The dress is a little easier to slip on, and Clarke is happy to note that the skirt isn’t too fluffy, making it less difficult to walk in than she imagined. She likes the way it fits, falling tastefully on her chest to show just the right amount of cleavage, before gathering in at her waist in a way that flatters her curves. The sleeves are short and slightly ruffled, nothing too showy or extravagant. She could never have chosen her own dress this successfully. A pair of pearly white gloves fit snugly up to her elbows and Clarke frowns a little as she wiggles her fingers. She’ll have to get used to the heat. She’s pleased to find that the shoes seem to have been chosen with comfort rather than elegance in mind, since they won’t be seen under the dress anyway.

Now for her hair.

\-------

Lexa’s pacing is interrupted by the sound of a door opening upstairs. She stills, clasping her hands behind her back to keep from fidgeting. She takes a few deep, settling breaths. The appearance of calm is all I need. They can’t ever tell the difference. It’s become like a mantra since Lexa was surprised to discover that it worked. She schools her demeanor into neutral passivity just as Clarke appears at the top of the stairs. But any semblance of calm crumble at the sight. Her throat tightens and she can’t seem to get air into her lungs. She feels her lips part, incapable of stopping them.

Clarke is beautiful! 

Lexa knows this. She’s known it from the first time she saw her, chest heaving from exertion, face smudged with dirt and blood. She’s seen it every time they’re in the same room and Clarke’s eyes find hers, at times electric with excitement or anger, at others captivating pools which Lexa dares not look into for too long, every time she catches the mischievous smile that makes her stomach flutter, or allows her eyes to wander her body in moments of weakness. She knows it because of the way images of Clarke dance through her mind when she’s alone, the way her body aches to indulge in the fantasies imaginary Clarke seems all too eager to provide. 

But tonight, tonight Clarke is simply stunning. Lexa’s eyes travel the length of her body, admiring how the dress seems to cling to her in all the right places, accentuating her curves adding grace to her movements. Her hair is up in a semi-messy bun and Lexa is mesmerized by the strand that teases her neck, wanting to trace it with her own fingertips, lips, tongue. She shuts down those thoughts with a jolt, forcing herself to meet Clarke’s eyes. Big mistake. The cobalt dress seems to magnify the eyes she could already hardly look away from and Lexa finds herself blushing at the twinkle of amusement she finds in them. She feels slightly put out, wondering how much of the hunger she feels can be seen in her eyes.

‘You look beautiful,’ she says, in an attempt to excuse her staring.

Her voice comes out far more breathless than she intended. 

Clarke smiles, a full, gorgeous smile. 

‘So do you,’ she replies, giving Lexa a once over. ‘Handsome, I mean. You know, it hardly seems fair,’ she continues thoughtfully.’ People spend countless hours trying to be beautiful or handsome, and here you continually pull off both with effortless poise.’

Lexa feels the heat rise to her face again as she meets Clarke at the bottom of the stairs. She examines her dress a little more closely.

‘Here, let me just…’

She reaches out to refasten the ribbon that pulls the dress tight around her waist. Only, she doesn’t realize until she has her arms around her that she basically has Clarke in an embrace, their lips inches apart. She looks down quickly, hurrying to fasten the knot. Clarke stills, stiffening a little at their nearness.

‘I must say I’m impressed you managed to get everything on yourself,’ she says as she steps away. ‘It took me months of trial and error before I could do it on my own.’

‘Oh, it was no small feat,’ Clarke replies with a lift of her eyebrow. ‘I’ll wager these clothes are designed specifically to thwart any attempts women may have to dress themselves.’

Lexa’s lips twitch upwards.

‘You may be onto something, Clarke. I believe we should launch an investigation into the conspiracy between lady’s maids and the fashion industry.’

‘A most noble undertaking, to be sure.’

Lexa’s smile reaches her eyes.

‘Still,’ Clarke continues, ‘I have a feeling whoever chose these mercifully had my need to dress myself in mind.’

Lexa gives her a slight nod because yes, she was thinking of how Clarke would most likely refuse help and tried to find clothes with all the fastenings relatively reachable. 

‘Shall we, my lady?’ Lexa asks, holding out her elbow.

‘Lead the way, good sir,’ she replies, eyes twinkling mischievously as she takes her arm. 

Lexa feels her traitorous heart speed up as Clarke’s fingers press lightly into her bicep. It’s going to be a long evening. 

\-------

The car ride is short and not much is said on the way. Clarke finds herself acutely aware of Lexa sitting beside her. Her posture, still elegant though relaxed. Her delicate fingers, tapping out a pattern on her knee. Her smell, something slightly masculine tonight mixed with the smell of Lexa. She feels a flutter of anticipation. Just nervous about the party. 

When they arrive, Lexa offers her her arm again as they make their way up the stairs. The house is smaller than the Woolcott estate, slightly less imposing, Clarke notes with relief. They give up their coats and are ushered into a large room. Clarke takes in the marble floor and high ceiling, somehow made less imposing by the large windows and burgundy drapes. There are a dozen or so tables at one end with crisp white tablecloths and tasteful centerpieces, leaving plenty of room for dancing. A handful of people are already milling about, drinks in hand, chatting in groups of two or three. 

‘It’s a little less imposing than I expected,’ Clarke whispers, leaning into Lexa.

Lexa nods.

‘Lucius doesn’t have quite the same social status as the Woolcotts and for the most part moves in different social circles. Makes it easier for me.’

‘Lucius Wood!’

The voice is loud and brings most parallel conversations to a halt.

‘It is you! How good of you to put your street-fighting on hold and join our little soiree.’

Lexa gives only a faint hint of exasperation as she reaches out to shake the man’s hand. He’s slightly older than them with thick, salt-and-pepper hair and a perpetual smirk. 

‘And what’s this? Can it be that you have finally brought a lady? Oh, I must tell Roan at once!’

‘Wouldn’t you like to meet her first?’ Lexa asks reprovingly.

‘Why of course, you know my manners are appalling, Lucius. My mother would have me whipped if she were here.’

‘Clarke, this is Patrick Eaton, our host this evening. Patrick, Lady Clarke.’

‘Pleasure to meet you,’ Clarke says, feeling foolish as she extends her hand.

‘Charmed, I’m sure,’ Patrick replies, and he looks it too as he presses his lips to Clarke’s gloved hand.

‘Now that you’ve met, you know who it’s best to avoid this evening, Clarke.’

Clarke’s eyes twinkle at the jab. Patrick clasps a hand to his heart in mock offense. 

‘What’s the point of bringing a goddess along, Lucius, if you intend to keep her for yourself. I’ll be sure you get the servants wine this evening.’

Lexa merely raises an eyebrow as he walks away.

‘He’s harmless enough,’ Lexa murmurs. ‘A lout, to be sure, but harmless.’

They move around the room as Lexa introduces Clarke to various people. It seems to be a younger crowd, which may account for the more informal interactions. Clarke still feels slightly out of her element, afraid she’ll use a word or expression that might give her away, and for the moment is content to sip her drink and offer polite replies as she watches Lexa.

It’s fascinating to see Lucius in action. Gone is Alexandra’s imposing elegance and Lexa’s quiet intensity. Lucius moves more easily, with wider gestures and natural charm, embodying an entitled nonchalance that comes from being born with privilege, being born a man. His voice is lower, less precise, enunciation slightly lazier than Lexa’s. He speaks more freely, teases quietly, and makes men and women alike smile. He seems to quietly, almost effortlessly, command attention. Clarke is enchanted. 

‘Why, Lucius, I never knew you to be this charming,’ she lilts, when they are relatively alone.

Lexa meets her gaze, eyes twinkling.

‘No? I have been known to be very good company, my lady.’

‘So I see.’

Clarke’s eyes widen teasingly at the possible double meaning and Lexa’s bluster is replaced by a blush. 

She regains her composure as a tall, broad-shouldered man saunters over, lips curling in amusement. Clarke gets the impression that he’s not amused by anything in particular, just life in general. His smirk is self-satisfied with an arrogance that dampens his natural good looks.

‘Lucius Wood,’ his voice is gravelly, hoarse. ‘I expected you to be convalescing for a good while yet.’

‘That would have pleased your mother no end,’ Lexa replies evenly. 

He laughs.

‘Mother is hard to please, but I daresay that might have done it.’

‘Roan Albin,’ he adds, turning to Clarke and not bothering to wait for introductions.

‘Clarke,’ Clarke replies with a small smile.

‘Just Clarke?’ he asks, raising his eyebrow as he takes her hand.

‘As far as you’re concerned,’ she answers without missing a beat. 

Roan smiles again. 

‘Well, a mystery woman. I’m intrigued. I’ll see you later Clarke.’

And he turns and moves into the crowd.

‘That was…well-played,’ Lexa says.

Clarke is sure she must be imaging the tightness in her voice.

‘Roan loves a challenge. He will be sure to seek you out.’

\-------

Lexa is standing in a corner, half-listening to the conversation she’s in as she watches Clarke. She doesn’t miss the way Jordan’s face lights up at her attention or how heads turn to follow her around the room. She loves the way Clarke’s presence stands out. She’s alluring, magnetic. People lean in to hear a little better, stand a little closer. She feels the little pull in her stomach. Clarke is special. She was right about her. 

Her eyes darken slightly as Roan sidles up to Clarke, and she misses making a sound at the right moment in her conversation, making Wick snap his fingers in her face.

‘What was that?’ Lexa asks.

Wick smirks knowingly.

‘Tryna keep an eye on your lady, huh? Afraid almighty Albin will spirit her away?’

Lexa’s eyes narrow.

‘I’ll give up my title the day Roan Albin can beat me at anything,’ she replies dismissively.

Wick laughs.

‘Brave words. Not that I can blame you. There is something about Clarke that inspires bravery.’

Lexa smiles at how true that is. She watches Roan drape an arm over the chair as he takes the seat next to Clarke and hopes the information is worth it.

\------- 

‘So, Clarke of the unknown last name, where are you from?’

‘France,’ she offers half-jokingly.

He tilts his head.

‘No. You’re forward, but their brashness has a peculiar flavor.’

‘Space, then’ she deadpans.

‘Well, in that case let me congratulate you,’ he replies seriously, ‘hardly a hint of the alien accent.’

Clarke smiles, hoping he can’t sense her nervousness at her accent being observed. It’s hard enough feigning posh-talk for the evening.

‘Alright, if you won’t tell me where you’re from, tell me what you are doing with the likes of Lucius Wood. Surely, even extraterrestrials have heard of his questionable pastimes.’

Clarke’s eyes flash at the mention and she feels Roan watching her closely.

‘Or perhaps that is exactly where the attraction lies. The roguish outlaw effect.’

‘He isn’t an outlaw,’ she replies quickly, ‘and you would be hard-pressed to find a characteristic in Lucius that isn’t to be liked.’ 

He raises his eyebrow and Clarke blushes slightly. She didn’t mean for that to come out.

‘And what about you? Do you spend your days going around parroting your parents’ politics?’

It’s risky, she knows. But she has a feeling Roan will respect it. 

His scoff tells her she was right.

‘Hardly. There are so many more pleasurable things in life. What do I care for my mother’s little crusade.’

‘You don’t think it’s a bit treacherous for her to oppose women’s rights?’

‘One could just as easily argue that your boy Lucius is a traitor to men. I’ve found that people are far more into their personal power plays than the big picture. Sure, they take up one side or another, but it’s because that side better preserves their interests. If my mother wishes to give testimony about the incompetence of women, it’s only because she stands to benefit from the outcome and cares little for the means.’

Clarke quietly tucks that piece of information away.

‘And she doesn’t care for your cynicism?’

Roan shrugs. 

‘She already has a gaggle of ladies whom she’s convinced will lose their cushy lifestyles if women gain the vote. I’m afraid your boy is gonna have a hard time pushing his Bill through when the House of Lords is flooded with noblewomen claiming women don’t want it.’

Clarke tries not to wince at the thought.

‘What do you think?’

Roan gives her a sardonic smile.

‘Oh no. One day when I am a lord politics will be inevitable, but now, now I just want to enjoy the company of beautiful women whose politics I care nothing about, as shown by my not asking about them.’

Clarke returns the smile, relenting. She accepts the fresh flute of champagne he offers, wondering how much longer she has to stay now that she has the information. She tries to scan the room without appearing obvious, looking for Lexa. No luck.

‘So, Clarke, what do you do for fun?’

‘Oh I take dance and embroidery lessons, shop for the perfect clothing in the hopes that when the man of my life sees me wearing them he will fall for my dazzling garments, marry me, and proceed to run my life.’

Roan laughs loudly.

‘Well-played. Though you certainly have the dazzling part down.’

Clarke is ready to be offended at the objectification when she catches his smirk and realizes he’s mostly teasing, appraising her with eyes ranging from curious to predatory. She shrugs, as if being gawked at was an everyday occurrence. Truth be told, it’s slightly flattering. Clarke never had much time or occasion to be dressed for show.

‘You’d think there was a shortage of women with the stares I’ve been getting.’

‘There doesn’t have to be a shortage for you to be noticed.’

It’s spoken quietly, matter-of-factly, which makes it more an observation than flattery. Clarke isn’t quite sure what to say to that. Her first instinct is to set him straight, but his misguided impression that she has something unique to offer may well work to her advantage.

To her relief, they’re interrupted by the gentle pressure of a hand to Clarke’s shoulder.

‘Dance with me, Clarke.’

It’s more of a request than a command, but there is an unmistakable possessiveness in it too. A familiarity. A confidence that her request won’t be refused. Clarke feels warm, protected. It’s not lost on Roan either, who eyes the hand and widens the space between them.

‘I’d love to,’ Clarke replies, turning and offering Lexa a genuine smile.

‘See you around mystery girl,’ Roan waves as they move to the dance floor.

‘You looked like you could use a break,’ Lexa whispers once they’re standing close and waiting for the next song. 

‘I did. Perfect timing,’ she replies, smiling at the thought of Lexa looking out for her, ready to intervene if things got thorny.

‘Oh, I forgot. I’m hopeless at dancing,’ Clarke blurts out, panic reaching her eyes.

She was so caught up in the relief of being interrupted she scarcely registered the reason for the interruption. Now it’s too late. The couples are already moving onto the dance floor and Clarke can feel the eyes of the room linger on her again. She hates being on display when feeling inept.

‘It’s ok,’ Lexa whispers, guiding her onto the dance floor. ‘I’ll lead. Just follow my body, step when I step. I’ve got you.’

Lexa takes her right hand in her left, squaring her shoulders and setting the pose. Clarke feels her right hand press into her lower back, fingers slightly spread, firm, anchoring. She puts her left hand on Lexa’s shoulder and Lexa gives her an encouraging smile.

‘Alright, we’ll go side to side, a little diagonally. Step-pause, step-pause, step-pause. Ready?’

Clarke’s body is stiff as Lexa begins moving. Her first steps are hesitant, a bit awkward, but Lexa is sure and she feels enveloped in that bubble of confidence. Slowly she begins to loosen and enjoy herself when she can anticipate the steps. Lexa’s eyes twinkle as she gets the hang of it and she feels like she could do anything to make her look at her like that.

‘I’m gonna spin you now,’ Lexa says, growing bolder after a few minutes.

Clarke freezes again, but before she can voice her panic Lexa has twirled her expertly and caught her again and the thrill of the movement makes Clarke release a surprised gasp of pleasure. Lexa smiles at her and brings them back to the base position.

‘You’re beautiful,’ Lexa whispers. ‘It’s no wonder they stare.’

And Clarke blushes. She’s caught up in the rhythm now, body flush against Lexa’s. Who knew dancing could be this fun? She feels giddy and empowered. She’s undercover at some posh party and she’s done it! She got the info. She didn’t screw up. And now she’s dancing with Lexa right under their noses. Lexa’s eyes are soft and proud and amused and…something. Something Clarke can’t name. Something that makes her feel both calm and like a whirlwind of power. And no one has any idea who they are or what they’re doing and it kinda feels like together they could take over the world. 

Lexa seems to read her exhilaration because she smiles again and moves her hand to Clarke’s waist to guide her more easily. Clarke feels a shudder at the press of her fingers, which she chalks up to too much champagne. But when the song changes and couples start to mingle, she stays right where she is and asks Lexa for another dance.

\-------

Clarke is still high when they enter the car an hour later. Her dance card was quickly filled up by other suitors and Lexa graciously stepped aside to allow them a turn. But she stayed close, ready to cut in whenever Clarke was a little shaky. Clarke found herself craving the comfort of her presence. Dancing was fun. Dancing with Lexa was different. It felt both safe and thrilling, like she could take the risks because Lexa wouldn’t fail to catch her. She loved the feeling.

She turns now to fill Lexa in on what Roan said.

‘She’s trying to undermine my influence, counter the signatures we’re collecting in favor of the vote. She knows that no matter how many names we have on a piece of paper, the sight of noblewomen in the flesh saying they don’t want the vote will definitely sway the lords. These are their wives, daughters, people they have tea and luncheons with.’

‘But there are hundreds of women on our side. We can show them that.’

Lexa nods, smiling slightly, at the determination glowing in Clarke’s eyes. But she’s still pensive.

‘I’ll speak to some of the ladies I know who are favorable to the vote. If we get some noblewomen to speak out on our side as well it will also counter their testimony. Nia is cunning and respected, though. She won’t be easy to undermine.’

They’re quiet for a moment, pondering their strategies as the car moves swiftly through the quiet streets.

‘I believe Marcus would be useful with this. I will ask him to the house tomorrow to discuss it. Could you come?’

Clarke starts a little at the invitation, surprised Lexa wants her there.

‘I’d love to. But it has to be after work.’

Lexa nods.

‘You did well, Clarke.’

Clarke feels her stomach pull at the compliment, at the sound of her name.

‘They were really no match for you.’

She turns to see Lexa watching her, considering her profile in the darkness.

‘I had fun,’ Clarke says. ‘Is that strange? I mean, I was anxious too, but playing their games, being undercover, dancing…You really are an excellent dancer.’

She can almost sense Lexa blushing, though it’s impossible to tell.

‘You learn quickly,’ Lexa replies.

‘It made me think,’ she continues quietly. ‘I know you are all about the fight and have sworn off personal happiness in your crusade. But maybe we can have both.’ Barely a whisper now. ‘Sometimes. Like tonight. Maybe life can be about more than just surviving. We deserve better than that.’ Her determination returns for the last line.

Lexa is quiet, expression unreadable. Clarke wonders if she was too forward. It’s not her business how Lexa wants to live. Except sometimes it feels like anything concerning Lexa has to be her business. 

‘Maybe we do.’

Lexa’s low reply startles Clarke and she turns to find Lexa looking at her. Her eyes are intense, searching Clarke’s. Clarke can’t look away. There’s something raw, bare in her look that pulls her in. 

Then Lexa’s hand is cupping her cheek and she moves forward, lips pressing gently against Clarke’s. Clarke feels a wave surge up inside her as she kisses back, letting it crash through her lips and into Lexa. Her lips are soft and full and taste of champagne and Lexa, and the tenderness of her touch makes Clarke want to kiss back harder, press her want into her. 

Lexa pulls back, eyes questioning. Is this ok?

Clarke replies by closing the distance, kissing her more deeply, tongue teasing Lexa’s lips, hand pressing into her thigh. She feels a rush to her head as a tiny moan escapes Lexa. She wants more. She needs to hear it again. Funny how something you never knew you wanted suddenly becomes a need, a hunger that could consume you if not sated. 

Then the car pulls to a stop and Lexa breaks the kiss, sigh tickling Clarke’s lips, mixing with her own jagged breathing. Her eyes are still closed, forehead resting against Clarke’s as if she needs a minute, not quite ready to come down. Her lips are swollen, inviting and Clarke wants to capture them again, suck her bottom lip, taste her.

Then Lexa shifts and Clarke can feel her regaining control, straightening her posture and pulling away. She hears a groan, then realizes she’s the one who made it when Lexa’s lips twitch in amusement. The driver has come around and is opening Clarke’s door.

‘I had a lovely evening, Clarke. Thank you.’

It’s formal, far more formal than their regular conversations. But sincere. Clarke smiles.

‘I’ll see you around, Mr. Wood.’

Lexa’s smile is beautiful and Clarke can see it long after the door is closed and the car has driven away.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to Clexa PK! (post kiss)

Lexa is still once the car starts moving again, hands gripping the seat hard on either side of her. There is too much, too many feelings churning, squeezing, expanding, it’s all she can do to keep gulping air into her lungs. She kissed Clarke! No excuses this time, no pretense. She kissed her because she wanted to kiss her, had wanted to since she first saw her; because the evening had been too much, dancing, touching, pretending. Because Clarke’s words had been the last straw and something had cracked within her and suddenly she couldn’t not kiss her.

Clarke kissed her back. Not shy and hesitant and questioning, but eager, want quivering on her lips. Lexa feels them still, both soft and forceful, like Clarke herself; feels the imprint of her hand where it gripped her thigh. She hadn’t wanted to stop. Or maybe Lexa’s projecting.

She should regret it, berating herself for her foolhardiness, for jeopardizing everything she’s fought for, for feeling again, except she can’t. Kissing Clarke—her eyes close and a lump rises in her throat as she relives it—is simply not something she could ever regret. It felt so…so much! So rich and full and alive. It felt inevitable, any attempts to avoid or regret it useless. 

But now what? She has no idea how to face Clarke after this.

\-------

She’s restless the next day, flustered. She wishes she could get out, walk the streets, move, do. But Lady Woolcott’s presence is required at the estate to tend to matters in her husband’s absence. And Lady Woolcott does not fidget. Lady Woolcott is calm, collected, decisive. So she holds herself still and regal as she listens to the petty problems of food and servants and who can’t be placed next to whom at the upcoming fete, while her insides squirm.

She sighs in relief when she can finally break for lunch, requesting that it be brought to her in the quiet of her study where she can regroup. She hasn’t had a moment to herself. No chance to process what happened since the sleepless hours in bed last night. What she really wants is to see Clarke. To make sure she hasn’t messed things up.

A knock on the door. She schools her expression into pleasant neutrality once again and coolly allows them in. 

She’s surprised when Gustus enters. He rarely brings her food himself, unless he has something to discuss. She feels dread pooling in her stomach. She suspects what’s coming and would give anything not to have this conversation.

‘Are you feeling unwell, my lady?’ 

The question seems neutral enough, but his eyes are anything but; intense, penetrating, knowing.

‘I am well. Lord Kane is expected this afternoon. Please show him in as soon as he rings.’

Gustus nods deferentially, swallowing whatever he would rather say.

‘And Clarke will be joining us as well. I’m sure you will be discreet when she arrives.’

His face darkens considerably at the mention of Clarke and Lexa has her answer. Nyko. Her driver is fiercely loyal, but he keeps no secrets from his cousin, no doubt believing that jointly they can do a better job protecting her.

‘Is that really necessary, my lady? Did she not already give you the information last night?’

‘Today’s meeting is to formulate a plan of action. Clarke’s input is invaluable.’ 

She meets his gaze, eyes fiery, almost daring him to challenge her.

He sighs.

‘I do not think it wise, Lexa. It is bound to raise questions with the servants.’

 _Lexa._ He’s reminding her that he is her friend, her confidante. He’s looking out for her, trying to protect her, even from herself if need be. He means well, but she feels a flash of anger at his words. Why must they all meddle? Yes, they are more than servants, they are her friends, her comrades-in-arms. They’ve abetted and protected her and stuck with her through everything. But she’ll be damned if they run every aspect of her life.

‘It is a necessary risk,’ she replies evenly.

He shakes his head disapprovingly, but places the tray in front of her and prepares to go.

‘Don’t let your feelings for one girl ruin the hope of millions.’

It’s spoken softly, almost regretfully, as truths often are. He turns without a word and closes the door behind him. He knows Lexa well, knows she is stubborn and may not admit to agreeing. But he is counting on her sense of duty to bring her around once her feelings have settled and logic rules once more.

Her stomach knots up at the thought and she pushes her food away. _Oh foolish heart!_

But try as she might she can’t bring herself to regret it, can’t quite strangle the hope sparked by Clarke’s lips kissing her back.

\-------

Marcus’s brow furrows in concern at the news of what Nia is planning, mirroring Lexa’s feelings. They’ve both seen Nia in action before and know what she’s capable of. She has a gift of sensing people’s weaknesses and using them to her advantage. She will no doubt play to the lords’ vanity and their bias towards nobility.

‘Many of them are just looking for an excuse to vote against the bill. Nia’s testimony will give them just that, and a way to save face. They’d still be siding with women, reasonable, respectable women.’

‘That is my concern,’ Lexa replies. ‘We have thousands of signatures, but it’s easier to ignore women who are not present when a woman of Nia’s standing is telling you what you want to hear.’

‘Then we’ll rally too,’ Clarke interjects. ‘If we can find out when they’ll be giving testimony we can gather outside, hundreds of women. We’ll show them that the majority disagree with Nia. Whether they like it or not they won’t be able to ignore it.’

Lexa nods, catching the fierce resolve in Clarke’s eyes. She flushes a little, pushing down the wave of affection that floods through her. 

She had been jittery until her arrival, uncertainty maddening as their meeting drew nearer. Had she pushed too far, made assumptions while caught up in the fairy tale of an evening with Clarke? She never can trust herself around her. Would Clarke be awkward? Distant? Would she feign amnesia? Or perhaps pull Lexa aside and explain how it was a mistake. Lexa was pretty sure she could deal with any of that. That’s what she did right? She survived. Knowing Clarke, accepting what Clarke made her feel, that was already far more than Lexa had ever hoped for. She just needed to know what it would be, then she would be ok.

But then Clarke walked in and looked straight at her and she felt her stomach swoop. Her blue eyes were warm and dancing with a secret kind of joy that made Lexa’s lips curl upwards in response. When Lexa offered her hand in greeting she took it, pressing her fingers lightly against Lexa’s wrist. The gesture was small, almost imperceptible, but soft and intimate in a way that made Lexa blush in response. 

She is pleased to find that their interactions were as smooth as ever, perhaps facilitated with Marcus’s oblivious presence, and she feels her courage increase as they put their heads together to find a way to undermine Nia. She tries not to think about the way Clarke’s proximity feels electric, the way her skin flushes and prickles when her hand brushes the sofa near her. It’s like their bodies are communicating on a different plane, oblivious to the businesslike nature of their words.

‘I can make inquiries into to determine when she’s scheduled to appear. I shall try and be there that day, perhaps ask a few questions to fluster those merely parroting Nia’s lines,’ Marcus adds, pulling Lexa’s eyes away from Clarke and back to him.

‘Excellent. I shall visit to some of my acquaintances as well, see if they wouldn’t mind speaking out in favor of the vote. Naturally, many fear their husbands’ retribution, but I know of a few who might risk it.’

They speak for a few more minutes about which noblewomen might be persuaded to stand with them, then turn to politics, who Lexa can count on in the House of Commons, how the others might be persuaded. When it comes to the rally, Clarke jumps in enthusiastically, and Lexa catches Marcus looking at her with frank admiration as she outlines the logistics of it. Clarke is a natural strategist and Lexa has seen firsthand how readily people follow her. She feels a rush of pride. 

Before long Marcus is excusing himself and Lexa finds the anxiety flooding back. Will Clarke take her leave as well? Will she stay? She isn’t sure which thought makes her more nervous, only she’s felt a restless kind of emptiness all day, which only got stronger when Clarke walked in. That is, more intense, but also a little relieved, a little sated, the way an amuse-bouche will both hold you over a little longer and make you hungrier than ever for the main course.

Clarke rises to bid Marcus farewell, walking with him to the door and graciously accepting his compliments on her plans. But she lingers as he exits, standing a little too far right. 

Lexa’s become all heartbeat, its thudding rhythm reducing the rest of the players to slow motion. The door closes. She feels Clarke standing next to her. Feels her inch closer. _Does she really?_ Hears a shaky exhale. _Or is the drumming in her ears just distorting things?_

‘Hey.’

Clarke’s voice is a breath, a little raspy, as if she hasn’t been using it all afternoon. Lexa turns, trying to catch her eyes, lingering on her lips a little too long.

‘Hey,’ she parrots, feeling foolishly inarticulate, grasping at something to say, something to do, anything to bring Clarke closer so she can breathe again. 

It’s Clarke who turns, reaching forward, taking Lexa’s curled hand in hers and pressing her fingers against the palm. Her touch is soothing, thrilling, promising. Lexa feels a shiver run up her arm, radiate through her. 

‘So last night,’ Clarke begins.

Lexa meets her eyes, willfully quelling the surge of convoluted emotions within her. Whatever Clarke needs.

‘Last night was pretty amazing.’

Lexa wonders if her eyes betray the incredulousness she feels when Clarke steps forward and brings their lips together. 

\-------

Kissing Lexa! Fuck, it gets better every time. The feel of her lips, soft and hungry, a gateway to the white hot desire beneath the façade. The little gasp that escapes Lexa when her hand finds her hip and brings their bodies closer, the way her body seems to simultaneously melt and ignite. The way Lexa kisses back, hard, wanting, like she’s afraid Clarke will disappear if their lips part. The way her fingers tangle in her hair, gripping in a way that pulls at Clarke’s stomach. 

She feels the kiss everywhere, feels heady and tingly, but ravenous too, like she’s spent her life getting by on ersatzes before now. It’s the difference between kissing someone and kissing Someone. The first is fine, fun even. But you’re thinking of how you come across, if your technique is good, if you’re provoking the desired effect, maybe even about that last shipment of bandages you never got around to putting away, or what’s for dinner. Kissing Someone leaves no room for that. It’s all-encompassing. Your reaction overloads your senses and overflows right into the other person and you can’t not grip them harder and kiss them like it’s all you’ve waited for, you can’t hold back the little moans and whimpers that erupt of their own accord, nor help the way your stomach swoops and thighs clench at their reciprocal sounds. Suddenly the exact play of lips and tongues doesn’t matter because every flick and suck and bite drives you deeper into the madness, whether soft and tender or deep and passionate, or even a bit messy with enthusiasm. 

She felt it that first night in the alley, back when Lucius wasn’t Lexa and things were confusing and contradictory. She felt it last night, rooted to the sidewalk watching Lexa drive away. She had the overpowering urge to run after her, not stop until she reached her house and could crash their bodies together. Only she was hardly wearing the attire to cross town in. She had half a mind to do it anyway, until she realized she didn’t know what house, didn’t know if Lexa had late night meetings as Lucius or needed to share a few dutiful words with her husband before heading to bed. 

So she walked inside, too wired to sleep, throwing herself on her bed, corset and all, and reliving the events of the evening. It all seemed different after the kiss, bathed in the new light of desire revealed. The way Lexa had looked at her, more than friendship or admiration, like something stirred within her and she had to fight to push it back. The way she smiled when they talked or danced, growing a little softer, a little brighter, Clarke hadn’t dared to think it was about her. The way she protected, while also empowering her to fight herself. Her touches; soft, firm, charged. Clarke let her mind swim in the details of the evening, basking in the afterglow of Lexa’s presence, reveling in the tingling ache of her body. God she wanted to see her, needed to be near her. Oh sweet desire!

Naturally, Raven and Octavia stopped by before work to badger her for details. Clarke did her best to relay the events with objective neutrality, focusing on Roan and how their reconnaissance mission had gone, but they both just kept smirking infuriatingly so she cut her story short in exasperation. 

‘I’ve remarked that Lucius’s presence was noticeably scant in your account, meaning he was either frightfully disappointing or too enchanting for words.’

Honestly, did Raven have to be both perceptive and direct? Seemed a bit much.

‘He was…’ 

Clarke never blushed. She was daring, she owned her decisions, she made others blush. Only her search for an adjective under her friends’ prying gazes was making her feel warm, much like the way a blush was said to. It could all be chalked up to a lack of sleep, no doubt.

‘Ah, the second it would seem,’ Raven nodded sagely.

‘He was the perfect gentleman; an ideal partner to navigate a posh gathering with.’

‘An ideal partner you say? This is getting serious fast.’ Raven quipped. 

‘Don’t you have work?’ Clarke asked, rolling her eyes.

But on some level she liked it, liked them knowing, liked that there was some outlet, however small, for the thrill she felt when she thought of Lexa. Having her feelings poked at by her friends provided a form of validation, told her something about what they meant to her. 

‘Now when you say ‘perfect gentleman’ is that synonymous with monkish or is it Lincoln’s suave, debonair version?’ Raven continued, earning a sharp jab from Octavia.

‘He taught me to dance,’ Clarke answered, a grin inadvertently spreading across her face. ‘He’s really good. It’s quite fun, actually.’ 

‘And?’ This from Octavia, who’s look told Clarke she already knew. 

‘And I’m meeting with him and Marcus today to go over our strategy,’ Clarke offered, an olive branch of evasion. 

She wanted to tell them about the kiss, about how her heart hadn’t stopped its erratic beating since. But she wasn’t sure if she should, not with Lexa’s secret involved. It wasn’t hers to tell. 

‘You’re holding out on us, Griffin. I’d honestly expected more from you.’

Clarke shrugged as if to say she wasn’t wrong but they weren’t getting any more. 

\-------

She thought she was ready for her meeting. God knows she’d been thinking about it all day; going over what it would be like, picturing the sight of Lexa, the shift in the air that accompanied her presence. She felt in control even when Gustus let her in with a bit more chill than she had recently come to expect from him. But when the moment she laid eyes on her she felt her ability to function suspended. 

She was dressed as Alexandra again, prim and elegant in her dark day dress that fit her smartly. Her hair was loose, swept to the side in a way Clarke had never seen. It made her look softer, beautiful. Clarke felt the sudden urge to reach up and run her fingers down her cheek. But it was the way Lexa looked at her that tugged at her core; hesitant, unsure, wanting yet willing not to want if Clarke held back. It made Clarke ache to pull her in and kiss her till there wasn’t a single question left. How she had ever convinced herself this attraction was about artistic beauty alone is a mystery. 

It took all her willpower to sit and discuss politics now that they were finally in the same room. She admired Lexa’s presence of mind, her ability to focus and strategize when all she could think about was the angle of her jawline as she spoke and how much she wanted to press hungry lips to her neck. But the conversation soon turned to her and the rally, and she was determined to do her part. She outlined their tactics, how they could contribute to hitting Nia on all fronts. She felt warm at the way Lexa looked at her as she spoke. It was quiet, hopeful and proud. 

Then Marcus was finally leaving and they were alone. She could feel Lexa’s nervous energy filling the space between them, shimmering, electric, irresistible. And then she’s kissing her and god it’s more! More than she expected or imagined or ever thought a simple act could be. 

Needing stability, something to keep them upright as she feels the tremble in Lexa’s legs and realizes she isn’t any steadier, she backs them against the wall near the door. A gasp escapes Lexa as her back thuds against the wooden panel. Clarke drinks it in, feels it shiver down her spine; unbridled, needy. This Lexa is new. This Lexa tilts her head and deepens the kiss. This Lexa parts her lips and welcomes Clarke’s tentative tongue, whimpering slightly at the touch, gripping her harder. This Lexa wants. Unapologetically. It’s intoxicating. 

Clarke presses closer, hand flat against her stomach, mind all too eager to provide images of what lies under the layers of clothing. Lexa grips her waist, pulling her till she’s pinning her to the wall with her hips. 

God! If Lexa wants, Clarke is bordering ravenous. She hates the way her hands are thwarted by the corset, curses all wicked beings involved in its creation and propagation. She pulls back from the kiss to better plan her assault on Lexa’s attire. In all honesty, fortresses are breached with less difficulty. Her brow furrows in concentration and she only realizes she’s pouting when Lexa chuckles and leans in again, teeth grazing her protruding bottom lip. 

Fuck! 

The jarring knock inches away makes them jolt, knocking their teeth together. Lexa moves quickly, flipping their positions and straightening her hair. She motions for Clarke to stay put as she steps silently back from the door. 

‘Enter,’ she calls. 

Her voice seems calm, almost bored, except Clarke is listening closely and can hear the slight tremor.

‘Milady, the car is ready. We should leave shortly if we are to make it by the start of the ceremony.’

‘Quite right, Nyko. I shall be down presently.’

He must nod in response because the next thing Clarke knows the door is closed again and Lexa is exhaling a little shakily.

‘I’m sorry,’ she says hastily. ‘It’s not a problem if he sees you. It’s just,’ she slowly gives Clarke a once over, ‘you’re a touch disheveled and the sight of both of us in this state, well,’ a small smile curls her lips, ‘it would hardly leave anything to the imagination, would it?’

Clarke smirks.

‘Oh, I don’t know. I’m looking at you and believe me, there is plenty to be imagined.’

A full smile now as a blush creeps up her cheeks and Clarke finds she has to kiss her again. A different kind of kiss, tasting of lighthearted smiles and hope. She feels a ripple widen her chest.

Lexa pulls back with an apologetic bite of her lip. 

‘I really must be going.’

Clarke nods, hoping her face shows understanding and mature restraint, or whatever the hell propriety calls for in a moment like this. It’s not as if she’s waited a night and a day to be alone with Lexa. 

‘I…’

Lexa pauses, teeth worrying her lip again and Clarke’s eyes drop to their plump richness. She feels her resolve weakening. 

‘I’ll be at Lucius’s tonight. He has an early appointment tomorrow. And well, if you…that is, our meeting was inopportunely cut short this afternoon and if you wish to continue uninterrupted...’

She stops, seeing the way Clarke cocks her eyebrow in amusement at her flustered propriety. 

‘That is to say, I hope you don’t think me too forward. I didn’t mean to suggest…’

‘Lexa,’ Clarke interrupts, brushing her fingers on the back of Lexa’s balled fist, ‘I’d love to come.’

Lexa’s eyes brighten a little incredulously and once again Clarke warms at the sight. She presses chaste kiss to her lips and gives her an over-the shoulder smile as she practically skips from the room. 

She’ll see Lexa again, tonight. Without prying eyes and interruptions. She’s practically giddy. And if Gustus gives her a look that could slay an army, well, she’s impervious to that too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really don't mean to tease, but this chapter was long already and it felt like a good place to stop.
> 
> Also, @lapizsilkwood made an awesome poster for the fic which you can find on my tumblr.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A booty call with feelings.
> 
> Editor's note: I know most of you are here for the riveting plot (ahem) in which case, feel free to skip this chapter entirely, as it in no way, shape, or form contains anything even remotely related to the fight for women's suffrage. Excepting, of course, the fact that they are both women and that certain sounds might well be considered 'intercessory prayers'. 
> 
> But I'm getting ahead of myself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, a special thank you to the ever-patient @lapizsilkwood. 
> 
> And all of you, whose kudos and comments inspire me to put in the hours.

Clarke takes stock of her body as she climbs the steps to Lucius’s house; elevated heart rate, shallow breaths, heightened senses, muscles tensed for action; symptoms which could indicate fear or stress or excitement, the body shifting to prepare for quick action. But which is it? Probably all three. She’s been in this state since leaving the Woolcott estate and no attempts at deep breaths or calming techniques could still her. So she’s turned to examining the source of her stress instead.

It’s not fear of being caught, there’s little chance of that, and being caught with Lucius would hardly raise questions. Nor is it due to the fact that Lexa is a woman. She thought it might be, waited for the shock which, by all accounts, should lie in the discovery, but now that she had accepted her attraction she felt calm, unsurprised, as if she’d been told something she had always known. It fit. It was right, more than right. She didn’t dare explore how right just yet.

And therein lies both the fear and the excitement. There was nothing blithe or casual about her feelings for Lexa, or Lexa’s feelings for her, or whatever was between them. Not that they had spoken of it, but it was undeniably so; a certainty that doesn’t require explanations for there are no questions, it just is. Tonight wasn’t a mere dalliance undertaken on a whim. It was significant, charged with import. And that was frightening.

She smooths her dress out once more, wondering if she’s expected to wear something fetching. She doesn’t exactly have anything other than the dress she wore last night. But surely they’re past the whole nerve-wracking pomp of dressing for a first impression. Once Lexa’s seen her in the pale light of dawn, no doubt drooling and crumpled after a night spent in vigil over her scantily-clad body, there isn’t much room left for social propriety.

Her feet have steadily continued bearing her forward throughout her musings, and she now finds herself standing before the door. She straightens before knocking, banishing any lingering anxiety. Her knock is firm, resonating, decisive.

Lexa opens the door almost immediately, and Clarke feels her lips unwittingly pull into a smile at the sight of her. She’s in ‘casual Lucius’ attire, jacket unbuttoned, glasses and tie already removed.

‘Hello, Clarke.’

Her voice is even but there’s a twinkle in the usually unreadable green eyes.

‘Hello, Lexa’ Clarke replies, the hint of a flirt in her voice as she steps forward before she’s quite moved to let her through, enjoying the way Lexa’s breath catches at her sudden nearness.

There’s a pause after Lexa closes the door. They both stand, feet apart, appraising each other a little awkwardly. The purpose of her visit is not in question, only how to go about it, how to proceed from point A to point B now that Clarke’s here. Her heart’s tempo increases; all this blood pumping and nowhere to run.

‘Have you eaten?’

Lexa’s question rings a little formal, as if asked merely to break the silence.

‘Yes,’ Clarke replies, smiling a little at Lexa’s state.

She’s always so sure, so confident. It’s comforting to know she’s just as flustered.

‘I didn’t exactly come here for food,’ she continues, stepping closer.

‘No, I suppose not.’

Lexa’s voice has dropped to just above a whisper and Clarke feels the sound vibrate somewhere low in her stomach. She’s seized by a kind of daring then, a reckless courage, fight, not flight. She reaches up and cups the back of Lexa’s neck bringing their lips together.

The kiss is soft, tentative, a hello kiss, a kiss that says ‘I have all the time in the world to enjoy you’. Lexa’s lips are soft and tender, but trembling with a smoldering kind of desire that ignites the sleeping embers in Clarke. She tilts her head slightly, needing more, swallowing the little whimper that escapes Lexa. It’s one of those rare moments where anticipation doesn’t best reality.

Then she feels an especially rough prickle from Lucius’s mustache and almost chortles into Lexa’s mouth. She pulls back quickly, resting her forehead against Lexa’s, breathless both from the kiss and trying to suppress her laughter. Lexa looks puzzled.

‘Is everything alright?’ Her voice is laced with concern.

Clarke nods, still not quite ready to speak as a grin spreads over her face. Confused Lexa has just been added to her list of favorite things. She reaches up and takes hold of Lexa’s whiskers.

‘This,’ she pronounces tugging lightly, ‘is absolutely ridiculous.’

Lexa gives a little half-gasp, half-laugh as a blush creeps onto her face, and it’s such a far cry from Lady Woolcott that Clarke feels she’s finally caught a glimpse of the girl she almost was, the girl she could’ve been had life not forced her to take on the role of nobleman’s wife to survive. Clarke feels a surge of affection for that girl, which she buries quickly in her examination of the removable patch of lip fur.

‘It’s quite well-made, isn’t it? You’d definitely come in the top three at a mustache styling contest. Lady Woolcott: the envy of gentlemen’s clubs across the country.’

Lexa rolls her eyes, but Clarke is having far too much fun as she carefully affixes it to her own face.

‘How do I look?’ she asks, waggling her eyebrows at Lexa.

This time Lexa can’t hold back the snort.

‘Rather dashing, I’d say. I now have someone to call if Lucius ever falls ill.’

Clarke smiles at the compliment.

‘I want to see,’ she declares. ‘Where do you have a mirror?’

‘The nearest is upstairs, in the hall.’

Clarke moves quickly, leading the way up the stairs she last climbed under far less pleasant circumstances.

She finds a waist-high mirror and stops to assess her new look, pursing her lips before pulling faces that range from stern to disturbingly lascivious. Lexa has joined her silently and is smirking over her left shoulder.

‘Shall I give you two some privacy?’

Her voice is even, but Clarke sees the way she’s watching her, eyes raking shameless down the length of her body, mood shifting from amusement to hunger. Her retort dies in her throat, eyes speaking instead, drawing Lexa to her.

Lexa steps forward, coming to a stop just behind Clarke, hand on her waist. She brushes her blond locks to the side, pressing her lips to Clarke’s neck. Clarke closes her eyes at the sensation, reveling in the shiver that runs down her spine, settles between her legs. Lexa makes a little sound at her reaction, and the next kiss is harder, hungrier. She grips at the hand on her waist.

‘You were right about one thing, though.’

The words tickle her ear, shudder through her nervous system as she opens her eyes to meet Lexa’s in the mirror.

‘It is ridiculous.’

Clarke smiles and pulls the mustache off, lets it fall to the floor. She turns then, fisting Lexa’s hair and recapturing her lips. There’s nothing tender or tentative now. She wants. And Lexa, everything about Lexa screams desire; the whimper at being caught off guard by the forcefulness of the kiss, the tightening grip on Clarke’s waist, the weave of her body, toward and against Clarke’s. A quiet moan escapes her when Clarke’s tongue laps into her mouth and Clarke feels herself growing hot in response, a rush of desire between her thighs. Sensory? Literal? Her hands travel down Lexa’s chest and she’s oh so thankful Lucius doesn’t wear a corset.

‘You know,’ Lexa manages to mumble between kisses, ‘I am in possession of a perfectly good bedroom.’

Clarke only hums in response, continues kissing her as they move haphazardly down the hall. They somehow manage to push through the door and Clarke’s hands begin to work the buttons of her shirt, fumbling a little when Lexa’s teeth graze her lips and her knees almost give out. She’s growing impatient by the time she finishes the last button and pushes the shirt back over her shoulders a little more roughly than intended.

Lexa doesn’t seem to mind, breaking their kiss so she can finish the job herself. She’s down to her undershirt; a man’s with short sleeves which put her lean, muscular arms on display. Her face is flushed and beautiful, lips slightly parted as she watches Clarke take her in. Lexa locks eyes with her, chest heaving slightly as she grips the bottom of her shirt and pulls it slowly up and over her head.

Clarke is transfixed. She’s seen her before, yes, but she hasn’t looked. Not really. Not like this. It wouldn’t have felt right. But now she drinks her in, eyes gliding over the contours of her body; the muscular ripples of her stomach, red scar on the side that is nearly healed, the lines of her collarbones and firm chest above the breast binding, the regal arch of her neck. She wets her lips, wanting to taste, to explore her skin with hands, mouth and tongue.

She steps forward again and Lexa shivers, skin rippling in goosebumps as she draws her fingertips up her sides, though whether it’s from her touch or the slight chill in her hands Clarke doesn’t know. She kisses her then, where her neck meets her shoulder, hears Lexa swallow a gasp and as her fingers dig into Clarke’s arm. Her skin is soft and Clarke presses open-mouthed kisses up her neck as her hands move to undo her binding. Slowly, savoring the taste of her, she unwinds it until it’s loose enough to drop to the floor. She stills, not looking yet, hyper-aware of Lexa’s nakedness, of the shiver caused buds that brushed her hand on her final pass. She leans back, biting her lips at the sight.

Lexa’s breasts are beautiful. Not large and supple like Clarke’s, but small and round, full; rich, pink nipples proclaiming her arousal. Clarke feels her mouth go dry at the sight.

‘Can I?’ Her voice is more cracked than she was hoping.

‘Yes,’ Lexa replies, and the unsteadiness in her voice sends another wave of desire crashing through Clarke.

She takes the right breast in her hand, cupping it gently and running her thumb over the nipple. When Lexa inhales sharply she pinches a little harder, testing her reaction. Lexa’s whine brings their lips together again, hot and impatient. Clarke’s hands move lower, nails raking on taut stomach muscles that seem to jump under her hand. She reaches the top of Lexa’s pants and doesn’t bother asking before beginning to undo the buttons. Lexa’s tongue sliding wantonly against hers is permission enough.

She makes short work of her pants once Lexa kicks off her shoes, breaking the kiss again to watch them slide down Lexa’s long, shapely legs. Once more, Lexa is patiently still as she looks, a sliver of shyness at being admired mixed with rising hunger as Clarke’s eyes grow more and more desirous.

She kisses her again, fingers running down her muscular back, gripping her hips. God, Clarke’s never wanted like this. Like she wants it all, needs it all; like there’s no stopping until she’s consumed and been consumed.

She’s maneuvered them to the four-poster and Lexa gasps when her back hits the bed, eyes flying open at the impact. Clarke feels the breath sucked out of her at the look she finds. It’s so open, so vulnerable, like in that moment her soul too is laid bare, given to Clarke to do with as she pleases. Clarke feels the reciprocating pull in her own chest, the ache to honor the trust she’s been given, guard it at all costs.

Then Lexa is reaching out and fumbling with the ties on Clarke’s dress, and Clarke is reminded of just how wet she is. She reaches back to help Lexa, roughly pulling the dress over her own head when it’s loose enough. Her chemise follows as she kicks off her shoes, not bothering with the knee-high stockings.

She pulls Lexa slightly away from the post so she can sink back into the bed. Clarke may only have done this a few times, but being shy in the bedroom was never her thing. She knows her body, knows what she likes, and, from limited experience, knows the effect she has on others. But when Lexa looks at her like she’s made of votes for women and death to the patriarchy all wrapped up in a well-endowed package, she feels a new kind of power spreading through her, the kind that comes from being wanted by the thing you want most. She revels in the way Lexa gasps when she straddles her, thighs pressing against her hips, how her mouth falls open at the sight when she leans down to kiss her, shivering as Clarke’s nipples brushing against her own.

Her kisses are bordering desperate now, hands trailing along Clarke’s body, igniting the skin wherever they touch, and fuck, this Lexa could well be the death of her! Her hands move up her thighs to grip her ass, pulling her closer, and Clarke feels herself drip in response, grinding down, chasing the friction. Does Lexa want as much as she does? The possibility makes her head spin. She shifts slightly, sliding one of her legs between Lexa’s, and Lexa gasps, biting her lip when she presses into her. She moves again, sliding her leg up and along Lexa’s center and is rewarded with a moan.

God her moans. They’re breathy and low, like she doesn’t mean to, like she wishes she could be quiet but isn’t quite in control of herself. Clarke loves every one as they escape the lips tightly pressed together in vain. They make her feel heady and drunk, like she could spend a lifetime learning how to best coax them from her body. She moves to kiss Lexa’s neck and trembles when she feels a patch of wetness on her thigh. It’s not enough. She needs more. Needs to feel all of Lexa.

‘Lexa.’ It’s meant as a whisper but comes out more like a shuddering exhale near her ear. ‘Can I?’ This with her hands tugging gently at the waistband of her undergarments.

‘Please.’ A whimper, bursting from her as if in answer to a long-awaited question.

Clarke bites her lip hard to keep the undignified noise locked in her throat. She sits back and slips the silky garment down her thighs, her calves, fixating on how it glides down Lexa’s skin. She’s naked now, spread out beneath Clarke, and once more Clarke is motionless at the sight, tracing invisible patterns up her legs, her inner thighs, coming to rest…Oh god, Clarke has her answer. Lexa is the definition of want, wet and open, and fuck. Clarke feels the ache to touch, to feel, to do.

Lexa is moving again. She seemed to understand Clarke’s need to absorb and waited quietly, but now her legs are moving, feet pressing against Clarke’s thighs, coaxing her back. Clarke is stricken by the need in her heavy dark eyes.

She moves to lie against her, the length of her body pressing into Lexa’s, head a few inches away, overcome by the heat that spreads through her at the contact. She watches her fingers travel down Lexa’s stomach, through the little mound of curls and below. They both gasp when Clarke touches her. She is warm and soft and dripping wet and Clarke feels her heart pound as she fights to keep control.

‘Lexa.’

Their eyes meet again; Clarke’s wide and incredulous, Lexa’s hungry and unfocused. She shifts, angling her hips upwards and Clarke’s finger slips inside. She watches Lexa’s face as a shudder runs through the body pressed against her. It’s ineffable, being inside her. It’s beyond the sensory feeling, the warm, wet, quivering walls that suck at her finger, make her own body tremble. It’s the indescribable wonder of the connection, of her movements extending, beyond her, into Lexa, becoming part of Lexa, perfectly interpreted and reciprocated in the undulating movements of her body. It’s hypnotic. She begins to move slowly, eyes fixed on Lexa, the twitch of her jaw, the parted lips and erratic, shallow breaths, the eyes that struggle to stay open and focused on Clarke. She slides her finger in a little deeper, a little harder and Lexa bites her lip, hips rising off the bed to rolling against her hand.

‘Clarke.’ It’s breathless, not a moan or a whimper. Something in between. ‘More.’

The plea sends a gush of wetness to Clarke’s thighs. She slips out and adds another finger, leaning in to kiss the moan from Lexa’s mouth as she pushes slowly back in. Fuck. If she was beautiful in elegance and power she is ten times more so in her undoing. Her fingers curl and Lexa’s hand grips her back, nails digging into her skin. Clarke freezes. Did she get too carried away?

‘Lexa?’

Her eyes snap open at the worried tone in Clarke’s voice.

‘Are you…is this ok?’

Lexa nods, blushes a little at the forcefulness of her reaction. She slips her own hand between them to cover Clarke’s encouragingly.

‘Don’t stop.’

A plea? A command? Either way, she could never dream of it. She starts slowly, short steady bursts of movement, fingers curled into the spot she’d found before. Lexa struggles for control as her breaths increase to match Clarke’s thrusts. Her leg wraps around Clarke, anchoring, gripping, pulling. Clarke is entranced, no longer certain if she really is doing or simply being absorbed and guided by Lexa’s desire. She wonders if you can come from watching someone else, from having your body pressed against theirs when they do. It feels inevitable when Lexa’s pleasure seems to course through her own body and her pussy clenches harder against nothing with each thrust.

Lexa’s close, she can feel her body growing tense, arching into her, head thrown back slightly, neck taut and glistening with sweat. Clarke presses her lips to it again, tasting, nipping lightly at the skin. Lexa’s open moan tells her it’s right.

‘You’re so fucking beautiful,’ she breathes.

That does it. Lexa goes stiff, immobile, and Clarke rises slightly to watch her face. Then the orgasm crashes through her in fierce, shuddering waves. Clarke is enraptured as Lexa presses her eyes shut and bites her lip hard, releasing a shaky, half-stifled moan. It lingers in the air, filling the moment in which neither of them can breathe. Then she stills body falling limp onto the bed. Eyes still closed as she wets her lips and struggles to breathe again. Clarke presses their foreheads together, feeling just as spent.

‘Hey,’ she says, brushing Lexa’s nose slightly with her own. ‘You ok?’

‘Mmh,’ Lexa hums affirmatively, a slow smile spreading across her face.

Clarke feels the smile in her chest, expanding, pushing against her ribcage. It feels surreal, seeing Lexa like this, defenses lowered, relaxed, happy. It almost feels intrusive except Lexa welcomed her in. She shows no shame in Clarke witnessing her pleasure or vulnerability now, no pretense to hide it. She relishes the privilege.

After a few moments of silent exhales Lexa’s eyes open, sparkling with a new kind of determination.

‘My turn,’ she all but growls, angling her hips up to flip them.

Clarke is at once surprised and aroused by her strength, landing with a little gasp as she becomes aware that she is far from satisfied. Lexa shifts above her, pressure bearing down on Clarke’s hips, curls tumbling messily down her shoulders as her eyes roam Clarke’s body. Well, Lexa may have had the patience to let Clarke look, but Clarke certainly doesn’t. She grasps her hand and tugs. Lexa complies, pressing her body into Clarke’s and she feels the anticipation tingling all over. She kisses her, slow and languidly, tongue flicking into her mouth like a promise, a foretaste of pleasures to be had, and Clarke clenches again, moaning into the kiss. She needs her now.

Lexa seems to understand. She slides down, trailing kisses down her neck and chest. Her hand cups her breast, eyes on Clarke as she teases her nipple, pinching gently before sucking; tongue flicking, soothing against the graze of teeth. Clarke shivers, hips canting up, seeking contact, grinding shamelessly against Lexa’s firm stomach. Lexa smirks a little at her impatience, but continues her descent, kissing down her stomach, stopping to place a deep, open-mouthed kiss on her hip. She bites at her underwear, tugging playfully, eyes on Clarke. 

‘Get them off,’ Clarke rasps. 

Lexa’s fingers are deft, shimming the material down her legs and off without taking her lips off her skin. Her hands trail up her stockings and Clarke’s skin prickles from the mixed sensations of cloth, skin, and lips. They reach her thighs, spreading them slightly, and every touch feels like a tease, thrilling in its own right, but god not enough, not where she needs them, not slaking the desire but making it squeeze and writhe and squirm. Lexa’s mouth is on her legs now, wet and firm and fuck, Clarke is tempted to touch herself, to rub her throbbing clit that seems to cry out for friction.

‘Lexa.’

The final vowel turns into a moan as Lexa’s tongue presses, flat and firm against her center. At last. Lexa moans appreciatively at the taste, _at her taste,_ and Clarke’s ass clenches in response. She licks up, long and slow, savoring the journey through Clarke’s slit, and Clarke’s hands feel like uncontrollable pressure outlets, gripping the bedsheets, pressing to her own mouth to stifle her sounds. Then Lexa’s there, circling, teasing, sucking, flicking her tongue as her clit is held firmly in her mouth, and Clarke’s hands tangle in her hair, pulling slightly, all attempts at restraint forgotten.

Lexa is spurred on by her undoing, moans vibrating against Clarke’s clit sending new waves of pleasure shivering through her. When Lexa releases her, tongue circling lightly, Clarke arches her back and cants her hips up in search of more. She tilts her head, looking down at Lexa, hoping to will her back to what she needs, when she finds Lexa watching her, eyes dark and determined as she deliberately slides her tongue up through her slit, coating it with her juices. Clarke exhales sharply, feeling the look shoot right through her. Fuck.

Lexa holds her gaze, sliding two fingers inside her, hard and deep, and it’s all Clarke can do to keep from rolling her head back and screwing her eyes shut as a strangled breath escapes her lips. There’s something about the way Lexa is watching her that keeps their eyes locked together. She wouldn’t look away for anything in the world.

Lexa goes back to her clit, lapping in time to her thrusts, and Clarke loses all desire to keep quiet. She feels the orgasm building, low in her stomach, coiling and brimming and ready to burst. God it has to burst. She’s about to implode from the pressure. She comes with a cry, arching forward, curling her fingers hard in Lexa’s hair to keep from looking away. It doesn’t pass quickly, currents rippling through her body as Lexa slows but doesn’t stop.

Eventually, slowly, she feels her body relaxing back into the bed. _God, this is what sex is supposed to feel like._ She smiles at the deliciousness of the feeling, the luxurious rapture of being exhausted in such a way. She tilts her chin to look down at Lexa. She’s lying with her head against Clarke’s thigh, looking up at her, cheeks flushed and lips glistening. Clarke thinks she’s never seen her looking so tranquil, and once again the sight feels too big for her chest.

‘Come here,’ she says softly, holding out her hand.

Lexa is all too happy to oblige, gliding up, pressing a slow, sated kiss to her lips before resting her head on the pillow beside her. Clarke likes the feeling of her warmth, the weight of her body against her. She feels whole in a way she can’t remember feeling. She is always occupied, rushing from one thing to the next, but never really full. She feels full now. It feels suspiciously like peace, like she doesn’t have to do a single thing to be complete. She can just be.

‘So that was...something else,’ Clarke says after a pause, a hint of smugness in her voice.

‘Mmh,’ Lexa hums approvingly into her shoulder. ‘You were something else.’

Her words are soft, filled with affection, and Clarke feels warmth spreading through her body. She wraps an arm around her, draws lazy patterns on her back.

‘Although, it can’t possibly be our best work.’

Clarke’s eyes furrow in confusion.

‘No? How do you figure?’

‘Well, it’s scientifically proven that repetition improves performance, one is hardly proficient the first time around.’

‘Is that so?’ Clarke asks, raising her eyebrow. ‘Well, as a woman of science I can hardly be expected to take your word for it. It is only through diligent testing that hypotheses can be proven. There’s nothing for it but to set about proving your theory.’

‘Your rigor is commendable,’ Lexa replies, lips curling into a smile. ‘As it happens, I am quite available for the next few hours.’

‘That suits me perfectly.’

Clarke leans in, capturing her lips once again. After all, peace doesn’t mean bypassing god-like pleasures.

\-------

Lexa lies awake long after Clarke has drifted off, soothed by the evenness of her breaths, the weight and warmth pressed onto her side. It all feels so big, bigger than she had anticipated. She let Clarke in unwittingly, unreservedly and now it feels like she takes up an almost overwhelming amount of space. When she looks at the sleeping blonde beside her she feels a thrill of hope which her mind quickly taints with dread. Clarke has carved out her place inside her, and the emptiness her absence would bring could be crushing.

She sighs, pushing the thought away to bask in Clarke’s warmth. She won’t think about that, not tonight. She just wants tonight. She knows her place. She’s committed to fulfilling her duty, protect those who depend on her. But she knows enough to know that her heart is far beyond protecting.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Basically, they're gay and in love and I am sappy about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Been in a weird mood all week so this is my version of a disclaimer/apology for whatever might follow. 
> 
> Also, @lapizsilkwood is awesome as usual, reading my stuff in advance and giving me her thoughts. Thank you!

‘So, Lord Kane confirmed the interviews will be Thursday morning. That gives us two days to prepare,’ Clarke concludes, looking around at the nodding faces.

They’re in the back room of the pharmacy, which Mr. Davies only allowed because the meeting is limited to a party of five. They’ve decided the best course of action would be to divide and ambush. The police will be particularly on edge at the arrival of the noblewomen, even if it’s meant to be completely hush-hush. At any sign of a protest they’re likely to put up barricades far enough from the House of Lords that they would have little chance of being heard through its formidable walls. So they’re breaking into teams, with each person present organizing and leading their own. Instead of having one big meeting, they’ll each meet with their groups separately to plan the more detailed logistics of reaching the square. 

‘The hardest part will be getting the signs there undetected,’ Raven points out. ‘We have the banners, which can be rolled up and carried easily, but the wooden ones we’ve painted are too bulky.’

‘I’ll talk to Lincoln,’ Octavia offers, ‘If we have them in a carriage near the square we only need to pull them out at the last minute. We’ll still have the element of surprise.’

‘That’ll work. I’ll ask Lucius if we can have another carriage, then we can get one on either end of the square.’

She wonders if they notice the heat in her cheeks, the way her heart sped up, the tremor in her voice when she almost said _Lexa_. She hurries on.

‘I’m designing some new flyers. Monty, can I get those to you tomorrow?’

‘Sure. I’ll stay late to get them done.’

‘So how many people are we expecting?’ Bellamy cuts in.

They run through the numbers and Clarke is pleased to find they should be at least 200 strong. 

‘Right, so we’ll converge on the square at 10, just as they begin speaking. Hopefully we’ll be loud enough to distract them, perhaps make the women who are only going along with Lady Albin reconsider.’

‘I think we should have a way of looking out for each other.’ Octavia’s voice is pensive. ‘When Clarke disappeared at our last rally we spent half the night looking for her. We need a way to keep everyone accounted for.’

‘What if you set it up within your groups, smaller groups of three or four that are supposed to stick together? The protest will probably get messy so it’ll be easier if we’re not also busy trying to shepherd everyone.’

On that note, they decide to leave the smaller details to each group and begin to divide the banners Clarke’s been working on.

‘One more thing,’ Clarke adds, ‘I know we’ve said it a thousand times, but this is a peaceful protest. We just want our voices heard too while they’re in there stabbing women’s rights in the back. Make sure you pass it on to your groups.’ 

She eyes Bellamy pointedly at the last sentence and he bristles at being singled out.

‘No need to look at me like that, Clarke. I know good and well where we stand.’

She wants to remind him it hasn’t always been the case, of the consequences of his past actions, but holds off at the looks the others are giving her. He knows. Leave it be.

‘Right, well if that’s it, I have somewhere to be.’

Raven’s curiosity perks up at this.

‘Late night deliveries for dying patients, no doubt.’

‘Possibly.’

Raven scoffs.

‘No connection with the automobile registered to one Lucius Wood being spotted repeatedly in the neighborhood this week, I’m sure.’

‘A tenuous one at most,’ Clarke agrees, lips inevitably quirking upwards.

Truth be told, the last few days have been idyllic, momentous even, but not in a canons and fireworks kind of way. In the moments spent with Lexa, and the time spent pining in between, she’s felt something inside her quietly and steadily shift. She’s not ready to name it yet, but she’s instinctively fierce in guarding it.

Lexa’s had fewer appointments this week and twice sent word asking if Clarke could join her. She drove over to the pharmacy herself as Lucius only rarely allowed himself the luxury of a driver. Clarke loved the way she arrived, bashfully charming as she stepped around to hold her door.

The rides were spent admiring the smoothness with which Lexa handled the vehicle, watching her profile as she drove, breathing through the fluttering in her chest at their proximity. They exchanged a few words about their respective endeavors, but they rang inadequate in the air between them, heavy as it was with yearning for non-verbal communication. It was strange, this state of limbo, of being alone yet visible to the world. 

Clarke wanted to touch, to run her fingers along the arm between them on the gearshift, pepper kisses along her jawline, find her scent in the crook of her neck. She felt the longing coil within her, squeezing; uncomfortable, yet not unpleasant, an intensity so rare you want it to devour you even as you know you may not survive it.

Occasionally, Lexa would look away from the road, turn her shimmering green eyes to her, and Clarke’s heart would start at the sight. They were so full of unspoken, unspeakable things; wonder, longing, tenderness, apprehension. Clarke felt them pour through her eyes and into her own being, filling her chest, settling into the spaces between her ribs. Oh to be looked at like someone’s world began and ended with you. 

The time at No. 12 Forest St. was like stepping through a portal, the outside world reduced to a hazy echo no more relevant than a dream. Clarke loved walking through that door and watching the pretenses fall away. She loved how Lexa’s posture relaxed at the sound of the lock clicking, how she grew lighter, coy even. She loved the first press of her lips, full of promise and the initial release of pent up desire, the renewed contact that made her realize just how much she’d missed her. She loved the play of Lexa’s fingers on her body, the chorus of breathy sounds she released into her lips. But while wonderful, sex with Lexa wasn’t all she loved. 

The notion of home is a strange one. Since her father died Clarke had all but given up on finding it again. It had become a faint memory, a nostalgia she guarded as a treasured souvenir, but which she had neither the time nor energy to indulge in. There was the pharmacy of course, both home and work, but it was filled with the bustle of activity, her bed merely a place to recharge at night before a new onslaught. When the noise stopped, the silence felt hollow, like at a train station or waiting room, that of a space occupied in passing. Not like a home should. Not a place you would turn to in search of refuge. 

But evenings in the study with Lexa, watching ink smudges accumulate on her chin as she scribbled, lost in concentration over some speech or letter, had begun to feel oddly habitual. She would look up from her reading or doodling to find Lexa’s brow furrowed in reflection and be taken over by a rush of happiness. Once in a while Lexa would look up and catch her staring, then the crease would vanish and a slow, easy smile would grace her face. Clarke lived for those moments. Even her breathing was different here, calmer, deeper, like it actually filled her body with oxygen as opposed to coming in hurried, shallow spurts. 

This house, which oddly enough was no one’s home, had come to feel more like home than anything in years.

\-------

‘You’re running off with him again then?’ 

Bellamy’s voice startles her, bringing her crashing to the present. He’s eased over to her side as she busies herself with the last bit of tidying before her departure. There’s a bite in his tone and she can feel the accusatory stiffness in his stance without even turning to see him. 

‘Yes,’ Clarke replies simply, not deeming his tone worthy of further justification.

He scoffs, shakes his head in disapproval.

‘We’re trying to do something here, Clarke, trying to build a resistance. We’re here busting our asses trying to get you votes while you’re off running around with some hoity-toity bloke who couldn’t be bothered to help Finn.’

‘Don’t you dare talk to me about Finn,’ Clarke warns, voice quivering with anger. 

‘I just mean, he’s not one of us,’ Bellamy backpedals quickly, realizing there’s not a snowball’s chance in Hell he’ll win the Finn argument. ‘He hasn’t been through the same things, isn’t committed like we are. For all we know he may just be using us to further some alternative plan.’

‘Lucius wants this just as much as we do. He’s already nearly gotten killed supporting our cause.’

Bellamy shakes his head stubbornly. ‘You’re too close to him, Clarke. He’s distracting you from what we should be doing. Can’t you see that we never do anything on our own anymore? It’s all to support some initiative of his or foil some plan he’s heard of.’

‘What the Dickens does it matter whose idea it is?’ Clarke shoots back, nearing exasperation. ‘We want the same things. Lucius hears things because of his position and that information allows us to be more effective. We’d be idiots not to use that.’

‘Well, who’s to say he’s not sending the information both ways?’ He softens his tone, appealing to whatever empathy is between them. ‘Your place is here, Clarke, with us. You need to keep your distance from him.’

‘And you need to mind you place.’

Clarke storms out, neither waiting nor caring for his answer.

\-------

It takes most of the ride to Lucius’s house for Clarke to calm down. She’s taking the bike today as Lexa had business to attend to, and she lets her anger flow through her legs and into the pedals in hard forceful pumps. Honestly, _where_ does Bellamy get off flinging distrust at Lexa? Everything she does is for them, for the good of womankind. Yes, she may have a different approach, but that may well be what gets them further than they’ve gone before. 

And this from _Bellamy_. Bellamy whose rash actions cost them Finn’s life and caused countless setbacks as people accused them of being violent and dangerous. With good reason. 

The worst part is, she knows exactly what it is. He doesn’t like Lexa because he sees her as the competition. He sees himself as the big man benevolently fighting for women’s rights, and Lucius coming in and setting the pace for their new actions has made him feel threatened. Not least because Clarke has been spending time with her privately as well as professionally. 

Well screw Bellamy and his insecurities. She’s not here to coddle him through them. If his self-image is fragile enough that he can’t welcome progress and be content with playing his part, it isn’t Clarke’s place to soothe his ego. He’ll just need to toughen up like the rest of them.

Slowly, after a copious amount of angry muttering, she feels the frustration ebb as she nears Lexa, replaced with the fluttery anticipation that always precedes her presence. She parks the bike against the side of the house and casually walks up the stairs (Not skips, not at all. No witnesses, no proof.) The tinkle of the doorbell provides a fitting soundtrack for the undulating dance of her organs. The door opens and the small tug of her lips at the sight of Clarke turns the abdominal dance into a gymnastic competition. Will meeting her ever feel commonplace?

‘Why Miss Griffin, have you brought me violets?’

Clarke feels the flush creep up her neck at the question.

‘Shall I take it as indication that you have been perusing the works of a certain Greek poetess with somewhat infamous proclivities?’

‘Well,’ Clarke replies quickly regaining her bluster, ‘one can hardly spend time in your study without happening upon such things.’

‘Touché.’ 

Lexa takes the flowers, eyes soft, twinkling with a kind of adoration that is all new for Clarke. It makes her feel warm and wonderful, and a little uncomfortable. She’s not quite sure what to do with being looked at like that. 

‘I only just returned,’ Lexa continues, as if to explain her stiff attire. No mustache this time, seems its disposal was the first order of business, but her glasses are still on and Clarke thinks they look rather adorable.

‘If I’m ever not here when you arrive, there is a key just there, under the third tile to the left.’

Clarke looks to the side, locating the spot.

‘You’re welcome to use it at any time. I…there’s no need to stand on ceremony where we’re concerned.’

Clarke takes her hand at that, pulling quickly into the house because she just has to kiss her and it’s been plenty long enough. Lexa gives a little satisfied hum, leg kicking out to push the door shut, and Clarke can’t help smiling against her lips. 

‘You’ve missed me,’ Clarke observes smugly, lips trailing along the jaw she spent the day thinking of.

‘Since yesterday? That hardly seems appropriate,’ Lexa replies, though the sharp intake of breath and dig of her fingers into Clarke’s waist when she reaches her neck prove otherwise. 

‘Mmh, you sure?’ Clarke asks, teeth nipping at her earlobe. 

Because god, she missed her. The feel and smell of her skin, the flutter of her pulse beneath her lips, the pull within her at their proximity.

‘There are very few things in life of which one can be absolutely sure.’ 

Clarke hears her struggle to keep her tone even, but even so it’s higher and breathier than usual and she has her answer. Her free hand slips into Clarke’s hair, tugging slightly, keeping her close. Clarke grips her hips and buries her head in Lexa’s neck, inhaling, letting her scent wash through her. She doesn’t smell like Lucius today. There is a fading hint of Alexandra’s perfume, but mostly she just smells like Lexa. Home. Lexa releases a little contented sigh of her own and Clarke wonders if this embrace can be bottled up and saved for later.

‘I’d best get these in water,’ Lexa says, slowly pulling away. 

‘Mmh,’ Clarke responds, but she’s loathe to put any distance at all between them. 

They walk together in search of a vase.

‘I hope you don’t mind,’ Lexa continues apologetically, ‘there is a letter I absolutely must send with the evening post. It shouldn’t take long.’

‘Of course. I haven’t made it through all of Sappho’s poems yet.’

Lexa laughs and the peal sends a flurry of awed joy through Clarke. 

They settle down in the study, violets on the table, Clarke on the couch with a volume from the shelf. Lexa takes the desk, jacket folded over the chair, sleeves rolled up. Clarke kicks off her shoes and folds her legs beneath her. The silence is comfortable, unhurried, and Clarke lets her mind wander, painting pictures of the words on the page.

Awed by her splendor  
stars near the lovely  
moon cover their own  
bright faces  
when she  
is roundest and lights  
earth with her silver

She’s never been one for poetry, words seeming too obscure a medium compared to colors and strokes. But when she looks at Lexa, she can feel the words embodied, the wonder and strength of her presence exquisitely conveyed. She finally understands a lover’s need to write.

The phone’s ring is jarring in the silence and Lexa grimaces apologetically as she hurries into the hall to answer it.

\-------

Lexa is pensive as she makes her way back. Calls from home often have that effect on her. But this one added a whole new factor that raises the stakes yet again. Not a bad thing, she could never think that, but one which will undoubtedly complicate an already complicated situation. She sighs, pushing it out of her mind for now. That is tomorrow’s concern.

She reenters the room, eyes falling on the desk. The call has now made the letter unnecessary. She will simply deliver the instructions in person. She turns to the couch, watching Clarke read, loving the little twitches of her mouth as she silently forms the words. Whatever she’s reading seems to please her as there is an inadvertent half-smile on her face. Lexa feels a little squeeze in her chest wondering what she’d ever done to merit a happiness like this.

‘Something up?’ Clarke asks, realizing her presence.

‘Nothing I need handle today,’ she replies, settling into the couch near Clarke.

Her expression darkens slightly and Lexa wonders at her ability to read her so easily, after all hiding her true emotions is critical to her survival and a skill she prides herself in. But Clarke looks at her and she feels stripped, her emotions laid bare for examination. Oddly enough it isn’t altogether uncomfortable. 

Clarke doesn’t press the matter though, only closes her book and places it on the table. 

‘Well then,’ she surmises, voice low and intentionally sultry, ‘we’d best make the most of today.’

She straddles Lexa, settling slowly into her lap, stormy blue eyes gazing straight into hers. Lexa feels her breath catch as she watches transfixed, basking in her warmth, the weight and pressure of her body, the grip of her hands on her shoulders. She wonders at her self-possession, her innate sensuality. Clarke’s unconsciously, and sometimes very consciously, sexy. Where Lexa is lean and hardened by training, Clarke is soft and curvaceous, moving with a kind of abandon, a looseness that hasn’t been driven from her body with endless lessons on propriety. She’s at home in her own skin, enjoying herself and loving when others enjoy her. After a lifetime of restraints, Lexa finds it irresistible. 

She brings her hands to Clarke’s thighs, pressing lightly, feeling her garter under her dress. Clarke’s lips quirk slightly at the contact, or perhaps it’s at the look on her face. Lexa can only imagine what she looks like when Clarke is this tantalizing close, when she feels this hungry. Clarke shifts to lean forward, and Lexa can’t help her gasp at the slight roll of her hips. 

Clarke hums appreciatively, closing the distance, stopping with their lips a sliver apart, her breath a whisper against Lexa’s mouth. Lexa has no breath at all. Her nose brushes teasingly against Lexa’s, full smile now as she leans to the side. Lexa’s senses are flooded with the smell of her skin, the graze of her teeth just below her ear.

‘I love when you want me.’

The words shiver through her ear, tumble around her brain and shudder down her spine. She can’t help the way her fingers grip harder before she’s schooled her emotions enough to answer. 

‘In that case, you must be in a near-perpetual amorous state.’

Clarke laughs, kissing down her jaw. 

‘You just say things like that so I’ll kiss you and make you swallow your fancy words.’

‘Is it working?’

The answer is far more direct than sound waves forming in the larynx, vibrating through the air, reaching her ears then traveling to the brain for interpretation. It’s lips on lips; hot, slow, and deliberate. Clarke’s kisses are rich, sinful, luxuriating in all the senses they elicit. She kisses with her whole body so that even if they are doing nothing but kissing, Lexa can feel it all in the play of her mouth, the slide of tongue on lips, an impatient suck when she feels a pang of want, a mischievous flick of her tongue that Lexa feels at the clench of her thighs. Then slowing, easing the passion back to smoldering desire, peaking then withdrawing, a simmering dance that makes her head spin. 

They’re in no hurry today, setting a languorous pace that somehow seems all the more wanton in its deliberate dilatoriness. Every move must be savored, etched into tangible memory. They kiss for what seems like hours, growing steadily hungrier. Lexa’s hands slide down to the hem of Clarke’s dress, slip slowly under, skipping over the play of cloth on skin. She slides behind, cupping the ass she couldn’t help thinking of all through her afternoon meeting, and Clarke rewards her with a little moan. She’s so expressive in what she likes, it makes it all the easier to learn how to please her. 

She bites her lip slightly and Clarke responds by rolling her hips. Slowly, deliberately, inviting Lexa to join her in this dance of desire. Lexa’s other hand moves to her hip, squeezing slightly, urging her body closer. Clarke draws back from the kiss, biting her lip as she sets the pace. Her gaze draws Lexa in, holds her captive as witness to her pleasure. Lexa’s own hips rise, canting softly, following Clarke’s rhythm.

She’s more impatient now that Lexa’s hands are on her undergarments, and Lexa watches as determination displaces languor. She’s seized with it too, the overwhelming need to feel her again. Her hand moves from hip to thigh, watching blue eyes darken at the touch, then up; pressure through cloth. Clarke moans, almost in relief, the beast of desire finally appeased through the contact. She increases the pressure, thighs squeezing Lexa’s sides as she chases the touch, and Lexa feels her own body shudder and clench.

She moves slowly, feeling Clarke through the flimsy cloth. There are no secrets with so little between them. She can feel the wet part of her lips, the tightening bud. Her mouth goes dry at the memories her mind is quick to provide. She presses her palm firmly against her, sliding easily, fixating on the twitch in Clarke’s jaw. Her chest is heaving slightly as she struggles to force herself to go slow. Clarke’s mouth comes down again, a messy, distracted kiss, hard bite to Lexa’s lip when she rubs her clit. 

‘Fuck, I need you. Inside.’

Her voice is too cracked to be a command. But that only makes it twice as effective.

Lexa leans forward, tugs her knickers down slightly. Clarke tries rising just a tad to slide them down, but now they’re bunched around her thighs restricting her movements and making straddling an awkward, if not impossible, business. After trying in vain to settle back comfortably she huffs in frustration, standing and yanking them down, kicking them halfway across the room for good measure. Lexa can’t help the smile that pulls at her lips. 

‘What kind of a gentlewoman are you? To laugh so at a damsel’s plight.’

‘Mmh, one who is more than ready to generously make up for her insensitivity,’ she replies, taking Clarkes hand and tugging her gently back down.

Clarke obliges, taking advantage of the shift in Lexa’s position to wrap her legs around her. Her dress is bunched up around her waist and Lexa’s dizzy with the knowledge of her pressed nakedly against her. 

‘So where were we? Ah yes, you were just about to slip those long, beautiful fingers inside me.’

Lexa blushes fiercely at the blunt verbalization of her intended actions. Still, she can’t resist doing just that. 

\------- 

It’s early, sunlight still pale as it slants through the curtains. Clarke watches its play on Lexa’s back, patterns forming temporary tattoos. She can’t help tracing them gently, enjoying the softness of her skin. She is peaceful in sleep, relieved of the weight she carries by day. She thinks of her many faces; majestic and imposing as Alexandra, quietly passionate and determined as Lucius. But Clarke likes her best in the rare moments when she’s just Lexa, a girl who likes flowers and obscure poems, blushes at the talk of sex, and looks at her as if she’s made of stars.

She smiles at the sigh that tells her Lexa’s awake, presses a kiss to the back of her neck. Lexa hums appreciatively, turns, still sleepy.

'Hey,' Clarke says softly.

'Mmh. No talking. Talking means morning.'

Clarke chuckles in reply. Lexa the girl is also loathe to ever break a cuddle.

'We don't have to talk at all,' she agrees, leaning forward to kiss the lazy, lopsided smile from her lips.

But the Earth obnoxiously keeps spinning and before long the sun is too bright to ignore. Lexa finally pulls back from her lips with a resigned sigh that gives Clarke a swell of satisfaction.

Dressing is a more challenging affair than Clarke anticipated. Or rather, trying to remember which rooms her garments are strewn in. She eyes Lexa's well-ordered wardrobe with envy, wondering what reaction she'd get if she shows up to work in the first pair of pants and suspenders she can find.

When she finally makes it downstairs, Lexa is already dressed and waiting at the door. She's dressed as Lady Woolcott in demure traveling clothes today. Well that's odd.

'I must return to my estate in the country,’ she explains at the quirk of Clarke’s eyebrows. ‘Something's come up and my presence is required.'

Clarke doesn't miss the note of weariness in her voice, nor the careful wording of her sentence. Is she being intentionally vague? Or does she just want to spare her the boring details of her life? Clarke nods silently. What more can she do? The thought of Lexa leaving makes her chest feel unpleasantly tight.

'Everything is in place for tomorrow. Marcus will be there to run interference on his end, you have the protest sorted, there really isn't anything for Lucius to do anyway.'

She's right, of course. 

So why does Clarke feel like they'd be better off if she stayed? Made stronger somehow just by her presence in the city.

'We'll do you proud.' It's a valiant attempt at nonchalance.

'You already do women everywhere proud, Clarke.'

The quiet intensity in her voice makes Clarke want to look away, suddenly bashful.

'The Bill is set to be presented next week, but I hope to be back before then. As soon as I possibly can, in fact.'

The last sentence is spoken low, like a confession, and Clarke feels all the longing that is left unsaid. It's comforting to know that Lexa will feel their separation too. She feels stronger, secure in the notion that they are both being pulled back towards each other.

'You'd better,' Clarke replies, using the tease to hide the lump in her throat. 

She extends her hand to seal the deal. Lexa grasps it, not in the regular handshake she was expecting, but in some overly-dramatic warriors clasp, palm to forearm. Her grip is tight and Clarke returns the pressure, neither wanting to let go.

'May we met again.' 

Her words are solemn, far to solemn for a temporary parting. Clarke catches the satirical quirk of her lips.

'You're trying to get me to kiss you again, aren't you?'

'Why ever would you...?'

The kiss is hard, bittersweet with the anticipation of yearning. Clarke can't help thinking it won't be enough, even as she tries to memorize the feel and taste and sound of her.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise! I'm off to Berlin for the weekend so you get an early update. 
> 
> Feel free to save it till Saturday. ;)

Clarke rushes forward, cautiously brandishing her picket sign to avoid dealing out concussions. They’ve made it up almost to the doors, a wary line of constables blocking them from advancing any further. She stands for a moment, relishing the pulse of the crowd; hundreds of women and a few dozen men, gathered to demand justice. She’s tingling with their combined power, it feels like hope, like history in the making.

She looks to where Raven is leading the chant, voice magnified by a megaphone. 

_Because the time is ripe, the age is ready,_  
Because the world her woman's help demands,  
Out of the long subjection and seclusion  
Come to our field of warfare and confusion  
The mother's heart and hands.  
Long has she stood aside, endured and waited,  
While man swung forward, toiling on alone;  
Now, for the weary man, so long ill-mated,  
Now, for the world for which she was created,  
Comes woman to her own. 

_Not for herself! though sweet the air of freedom;_  
Not for herself, though dear the new-born power;  
But for the child, who needs a nobler mother,  
For the whole people, needing one another,  
Comes woman to her hour. 

She belts out the words along with the rest, feeling the energized tempo rise as they repeat the last line, raising banners and hands in a kind of rallying salute in time to the music. They cheer loudly when it ends, emboldened by its declarations. 

She passes her sign to the nearest person, a woman barely out of her teens with intelligent eyes shining out of a dirt-smudged face, and hoists herself onto the concrete wall around one of the pillars. It takes several persistent yells before Raven turns and she can motion for her to pass her the megaphone. 

Clarke inhales deeply, taking in the sea of faces turned to her in expectation. Bright, determined, strong. Women from all backgrounds and experiences, united by the green and purple sashes that declare their intent. They are the future. It is painfully apparent how ludicrous denying them the vote is. She brings the megaphone to her lips. The best speeches are the spontaneous ones, right.

‘Right now, in that hall, there’s a group of women telling the men that run this country that you don’t want the vote.’

A chorus of boos greets her statement. 

‘They’re telling them that your minds are limited to needlework and cookery, that you care aught for the running of this country you’ve poured your lives into.’

The boos increase, mingled with shouts of protest. 

‘They’re saying you’re happy to keep your heads down and spend your lives without your own voice, without the chance to see your interests represented without the stifling proxy of whatever men are given power over your lives.’

This time she has to wait until the boos die down before she can be heard again. 

‘They’re convinced that our minds are too small to know what we want, that our struggles and needs are best understood, nay determined, by people who could not possibly experience what we do.’

She’s sure the roar can be heard inside, feels the rush of energy again.

‘But I look at you, and I say, _“No”_.’

‘No!’ comes back a hundred times louder.

‘I say before me stands half the force that makes this country strong. Leaders and fighters, workers. Mothers, daughters and citizens of England, who by their wit and blood and sweat have made her great and who have every right to partake in that greatness.’

The cheers are thunderous.

‘I say this country is crippling itself by holding us back.’

It’s more like a war cry now.

‘I say we will rise for it is our hour’

‘It is our hour.’

‘Votes for women.’

‘Votes for women.’

The cry rings out, again and again, louder and louder till it drowns out all other sounds, till Clarke feels the very foundations of the structures built to keep them without trembling. She exults in the feeling. Down with the patriarchal constraints of yore; in with the future. 

That is, until the first brick flies, soaring past her head and crashing into the wall with a resonating thud. The crowd stills, holds its breath, waiting to see what this action means. Is it an isolated incident or a shift in the nature of the protest?

The second brick is louder, thunderous in the silence as it shatters against stone. 

‘No,’ Clarke cries into the megaphone. ‘Peaceful protest. No bricks.’

But the throng surges forward, channeling their euphoric energy into frenzy as they press against the constables’ barricade. Clarke jumps down, trying to get between the agitators and the police, trying to stop them. Her hat is knocked from her head, disappears under scuffling feet. More objects are flying, bricks, shoes, signs, anything that can be converted into a projectile. 

‘Stop,’ she yells, voice hoarser by the second. 

The constables have their truncheons out now and Clarke can smell their fear. They’re a thin barrier between the nobility and the teeming crowd, and she knows they’ll stop at nothing to man their post. 

‘I say we go in there and tell ‘em ourselves. We don’t need no noblewomen speakin’ for us.’

The voice comes from a few feet to her left. A short woman with fierce eyes and a booming voice that is met with cheers from those nearest. Clarke pushes through the crowd, trying to reach her before she makes it to the front, to get her to see reason. But everyone is trying to move, pressing forward, blocking her path. 

She hears the sickening thud of truncheon on bone, followed by a cry of pain.

That does it. The protestors attack across the line, swinging whatever they have, flailing limbs included, at the uniformed men standing between them and their nation’s seat of power. Within minutes it’s dissolved into mayhem, bodies lunging, swinging, twisting, falling. Clarke is desperate, still yelling, trying to hold her people back, to be heard over the policemen’s angry whistles. Frantically looking about for a familiar face, someone who can help her put an end to this madness.

That’s when it comes, a glancing blow to the back of her head, still packing enough force to send her sprawling forward. 

She’s dizzy, sick, ready to pass out or throw up. One thought thuds through the pain: don’t fall. To fall in this madness means getting trampled, could mean death. She staggers, vision hazy, grasping at moving bodies in an attempt to keep her balance. 

Rough hands grab her, two on each arm, hoisting her up. She’s too dazed to do anything for the first moments, until she feels cuffs snap on her wrists. She begins kicking out, a string of incoherent protests pouring from her mouth. She was trying to stop them, couldn’t they see?

She’s pushed, stumbling, to the side and into an awaiting carriage.

‘Keep an eye on that one, she’s one of the ringleaders.’

The voice is gruff and she looks up to see a burly officer regarding her with disdain. He reaches out to take hold of her sash, tears it roughly from her body. Her neck burns.

‘Suffragette,’ he spits, phlegm landing just next to Clarke’s shoe. 

She opens her mouth to protest, but the doors are slammed shut and her words echo around her, confined to ricochet in the darkness. Then the nausea comes in full swing and she blacks out.

\-------

The first sense to awaken is olfactory, assaulted by the strident stench of sweat and human excrement. She jolts up, regretting it instantly as a new wave of sick washes through her. She bites her lip, swallowing desperately, eyes screwed shut as she tries to breathe through the smell and keep her sick down. Her stubbornness pays off and before long her breaths are slightly more regular, if a little ragged. Her throat feels dry and raw. Yelling, she was yelling. Her eyes fly open as the memories come flooding back. 

She’s in a cell, cramped, damp and covered in mildew. The hard cot she was unceremoniously dumped on is too short for her legs and smells of dirt and urine. Her dress has a new tear and she’s no longer wearing her stockings. Come to think of it, her undergarments feel awkward, pulling in all the wrong places. Was she searched while unconscious? Bastards. She can only hope, somewhat hopelessly, that it was by a woman.

She stands, pressing her fingers into her forehead at the rush of dizziness. A concussion, no doubt, but her memory and coordination seem ok, for which she’s grateful. She moves slowly, testing her steps, happy to find her legs bear her weight steadily to the door. She peers out through the bars. The corridors are empty and there is an eerie stillness, broken only by a mechanical wail, every three seconds without fail, and distant clanging from somewhere beneath her. Night.

She feels like yelling, taking off her shoe and banging it against the bars, demanding to know the reason for her incarceration, demanding justice. But the other prisoners are not responsible for her situation and these may be the few hours of peace they get. Besides, the strategist in her reckons that waking the prison in the dead of night may not be the best course of action with either the prisoners or the guards. She has no clue how long she’ll be stuck here for and that doesn’t seem the entrance most likely to get her allies.

She settles back into bed, sitting with her back against the cool wall. She knows she shouldn’t sleep, tries to keep her mind busy. Replaying the events of the day. Her thoughts turn to her friends. Was anyone else taken? Injured? She remembers the savagery of the crowd, the constables’ desperation. She feels cold with fear. She started that. She brought them all together, got up there and gave them a speech on fighting for their rights. If anyone was hurt…

Her mind skips involuntarily to a very different bed with crisp sheets and the warmth of her lover. It was just two nights ago. She felt so safe, so hopeful. But now, breathing through her mouth to keep from puking, it all seems like a cruel dream.

\-------

To Clarke’s relief, the changing of the guards comes well before dawn. The hours drag on dreadfully slow when you’re trying to keep from falling asleep in the darkness. She hurries to her door and begins banging and yelling, or rather croaking considering the state of her throat. She doesn’t care about waking people now, the guards will do that anyway.

‘Hey! Hey, over here. Innocent woman imprisoned. Come at once. Bring keys. Hey.’

She keeps it up for a good ten minutes before they deign to look in on her. The first guard is scruffy and slightly overweight. Eyes set a little too closely together give him a mean, petty countenance even as his expression implies permanent boredom.

‘Prisoner 28506, Clarke Griffin. Disorderly conduct. Assaulting an officer. Damaging public property. Inciting violence. Quite the collection of charges there, Miss Innocent.’

‘They got it wrong,’ she shoots back unflinching. ‘I was trying to stop them. I’m a suffragist. Peaceful demonstrations only.’

The man snorts derisively. 

‘Once you forget your place there’s no such thing as peace. Mad harpies, the lot of you.’

Clarke quells the urge to spit in his backwards, arrogant face.

‘When is my trial?’

‘Trial?’ he scoffs. ‘Hear that, Jack? She thinks she got a trial scheduled. Would you like a guided tour with that as well, Miss?’

His voice lowers then, mirth replaced with gleeful cruelty.

‘Your like don’t get no trials till, well till you’ve been kept out of trouble for a good long time.’

Clarke is tempted to recoil from the odious breath as he cracks a rotten-toothed smile. But she stands her ground, facing him down. She won’t be intimidated. 

He leans back after a moment, contemplating her stance, before stalking off with a guffaw.

‘Get comfortable, suffragette. This is your home now.’

\-------

The conversation in the yard a few hours later confirms the guard’s claims.

‘Been here three months now and I’m no closer to gettin’ a trial than I was when I got here.’

Emori, an eccentric name for a remarkable girl. Clarke learns she’d been very active on the outside, crashing events and disrupting ceremonies in an attempt to draw attention from the people who mattered.

‘It’s what they do, arrest us on some trumped up charge and then bury us in paperwork. When we do go to trial, the cases are usually dismissed pretty quickly. Basically, they can’t get us lawfully, but they punish us anyway.’

‘That’s not right,’ Clarke declares, jaw set. ‘There are people on the outside fighting for us. I’m sure they’ll get us out.’

‘Yeah, eventually,’ Emori says. ‘Once _they’ve_ decided we’ve served our sentence.’ This with a head jerk at the guards. 

Surely not, Clarke thinks. They’ll find a way. Lexa…

But she isn’t sure. Lexa refused to align herself with Finn for the greater good. The Bill is set to be presented in a week. Surely that will be a priority. 

She thinks of warm, lazy evenings, pale mornings and tangled limbs, the smile she seems to reserve just for her. Maybe. But it’s quickly replaced by the firm set of her jaw, the stolid determination. Lexa is the most pragmatic person she knows.

‘We’re not taking it lying down though,’ Emori continues. ‘Hunger strike in protest of unfair incarceration. They force feed us, tubes down the throat, but it gets us some recognition. A few of the girls were let out last week.’

Clarke nods, resolution quelling her fears.

‘We’re fighters, whether out there or in here. Their days of lording their power over us are numbered.’

Emori smiles, invigored at the thought of a new ally.

‘Miss Griffin, thare a Miss Griffin round here?’

Clarke turns before answering. A middle-aged woman, portly, shabby clothes telling Clarke she’s been here a while.

‘That’s me,’ she replies with a slight wave.

‘Oh thank goodness. ‘ve heard you’re a doctor’s helper. Only one of the women ‘s taken a turn the other day, dizzy with ‘unger and all that. Banged up pretty badly, but the bastards ‘re refusing treatment unless she agrees ta eat. Ya fancy havin’ a look at ‘er?’

‘Of course,’ Clarke says, rolling up her sleeves and following the woman to a corner of the yard. She may be in prison, but she’ll be damned if she’s gonna let them break her, or anyone else around her for that matter. Not on her watch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song isn't mine, it's an old suffrage song called 'Coming' that I liked. (And not just for the title, you sinners).
> 
> I also came across this beauty while doing research and thought I'd share it [X](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_52WWJLY_nM)
> 
> Last but my favorite of all, @lapizsilkwood has made a rad moodboard you can ooh and aah over [HERE](http://lapizsilkwood.tumblr.com/post/159204098918/moodboard-clexa-au-fanfic-suffrage-by)
> 
> As usual, thanks for reading. You're all lovely!


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for not answering comments on the last chapter. Life's been kind of kicking my ass this week and it was all I could do to get this update ready for today. I read them all and I love you for posting them. They honestly make this whole thing worth it. I'll be back to answering them again this week.
> 
> As always, shout out to @lapizsilkwood for being my beta and always ensuring that I have enough gay content to keep smiling. You're awesome!

The whistle pierces the predawn silence, jarring Clarke from her eerily vivid dream. She was watching a woman—she can’t quite put her finger on whom now that she’s awake—struggling across a street. She was held back by men, teasing, toying, demeaning, shouting. There was a woman too, with venomous accusatory eyes. Her grip was firmer, nails leaving blood-red grooves in the flesh of her arms; her attacks all the more baffling and hurtful on account of the betrayal. Clarke rushed to help her, but found her legs paralyzed, buried in the concrete as if she'd stood there for hours while it set around her. She opened her mouth to yell at them, but found she had no voice, her struggle to move her mouth and throat rendered comical by the absence of sound. 

The last thing she remembers is the gripping terror as a carriage hurdled down the street straight towards the woman. Her pleading eyes met Clarke’s with a look that sliced through her; she felt hopelessness, pain, guilt. The whistle assaulted her ears before impact. 

Luckily.

Or maybe not.

It meant prisoner count and the start of yet another day in this place that is now...god forbid it be called home. More like her current existence. Prison is as much a feeling as a place, perhaps more so. A dense, moldy feeling that seeps into your pores. It’s oppressively deterministic; reducing its occupants to strange, cumbersome puppets, flailing and kicking to no avail because no one can see them. 

One of the suffragists’ key arguments is that women are treated as less than people. But being a woman in prison has taken that feeling to an all new, harshly vivid, level. The powerlessness feels almost overwhelming. It’s as if all the laws set to ensure justice and fair trials are left outside the impenetrable, wet walls. It’s the guards’ whims that rule here. And whoever’s money puts that extra pint in their protruding bellies at the end of the day.

Clarke stands stiffly before the door, eyes level with the observation window. She can hear them moving down the hall, truncheons banging on doors as they jeer at half-sleeping inmates. Her window clangs open and beady eyes meet hers. 

‘If it isn’t our resident damsel in distress, wrongfully imprisoned by the big bad men. Bah!’ this with a band of his stick on the door. ‘You and everyone else in here, blondie.’

Clarke grits her teeth, forcing herself not to speak. He isn’t worth it. Not yet. Someday. When it serves her purposes.

He continues staring, eyes twinkling in challenge. When it’s obvious to even his doltish brain that she’s not going for the bait he huffs and slams the cell window shut.

Clarke sighs, not moving quite yet in case he returns. She’s done her best--she really has--not to get on their bad side, stepping in only when their sadistic games put one of the other women at risk. But still, it seemed as if they singled her out from the start, using any action that could be construed as a transgression if held up to the right light and observed by a creative pair of backwards, hate-driven eyes, to heap discomfort on her. Not that there was much they could do to make the situation worse, but it’s the little things. Bathroom duty, limited yard time, work shifts with prisoners who ratted out their peers in exchange for temporary blindness when they got the urge to pummel another prisoner. 

Then there are the little gestures behind the scenes to show they care, being served water that looks and smells like it was drawn from a sewer, finding her mattress swapped out for a flea-infested one, the wailing cellmate. Although the latter was removed after the first night when she started having seizures and Clarke demanded she be taken to a doctor. It was either oblige or have a women riot. 

Clarke sighs again, lets her body sink back into the bed. It’ll be another hour before they’re let out for breakfast. Well, watching other people eat. She’s joined Emori and the other suffragists in their hunger strike. The first day was the worst, growling pangs morphing into cramps she did her best to ignore. She wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of seeing her suffer. They’d subsided a little on the second day and are now more of a background thud. She’s tried to drink more water to compensate, but still can’t stomach much of the foul liquid without retching. 

She feels weaker though, foggier. It takes her mind longer to get from A to B to C. And the cold. She didn’t expect to feel much in early June, but the damp walls give the prison a chilly, underground temperature. She’d given up her blanket the first day to an elderly woman she’d been called over to treat. Four months inside without so much as a visit from her barrister. Three months without eating. Two months and nineteen days of being force-fed with a tube. Clarke did what she could, which wasn’t much. There was no mystery, she needed to eat and that wasn’t happening. She cleaned the cuts and sores on her mouth from the tubes as best she could, tried her warm her. 

It only took two nights for Clarke to learn that nighttime is the worst. It’s hard to sleep when hungry. The body gnaws on itself, churning and growling. She lay in a kind of frustrated stupor, too tired to think, too hungry to sleep. Time blended, shrinking and stretching, endless and yet, morning came before she felt she slept at all. 

That’s another strange element of prison: time. On the one hand, days are comprised of mostly empty hours. It’s unnerving for one so busy to have so much unfilled time. Surely she could use it, to think, to plan, to rest. But her mind spins in worried circles, thinking of her friends, of Lexa, every idea mired down by the thought that she might be here a long time. Rest is restless. Determination has no outlet. Inaction turns depressive. Boredom. It makes her antsy. 

Well, that and the fact the she might actually be antsy. Or fleasy. Or any other kind of insect-y. She can feel the prison filth seeping through her clothes, clinging to her skin and matting her hair. Every hour she becomes more and more like the prison she loathes, her smell mingling with its stench until they’re indistinguishable, assaulting her airless cell. That may be the worst thing they’ve done, refusing to allow her water to wash. There are few things as demoralizing as being sickened by your own body. 

Clarke grits her teeth and clutches the ratty mattress. It’ll take a lot more than that to break her.

Day three marches on and she’s relieved for the twenty minutes in the mess hall where she can speak to Emori and the others. She tells Clarke of a woman who's developed rashes and they strategize on how to make their yard time coincide so she can have a look at them. It seems a small thing, but Clarke feels her spirits revived at this spurt of brain activity. Emori is resourceful and relentless, and they feed off each other’s energy and ideas until they have concocted an elaborate scheme involving a slop bucket, a feigned heart attack, and a hazardous sprint down a normally-guarded hallway. It may be the lack of food, but Clarke finds herself thoroughly impressed by their brilliance.

In the end, a few broomsticks and Emori improvising a faceoff with one of the guards is also required, but Clarke makes it safely to the woman's corner of the yard, where she examines her from under the safety of a borrowed cloak, her presence not expected in the yard for another half hour. She finds herself smiling over it hours later in the confines of her cell, replaying the events slowly, examining every detail. Anything to stave of the boredom and keep her spirits up.

That is, until she notices the silence. Prison has a very distinct presence and one quickly learns to discern its moods. This one is attentive, a mass straining towards the unknown source of intrigue. Clarke finds herself drawn in to it, hurrying to the door, thankful the window has been left open. All she sees are the prisoners at the other end of the hall peering back, whispers quickly shushed as the struggle between asking what’s going on and trying to hear is waged.

Then come the footsteps, the heavy _clomp, clomp_ of a guard. Make that two. But it’s not what anyone is listening to. It’s the higher _clip, clip, clip_ of unfamiliar shoes; determined, authoritative. Clarke’s heart flutters, picks up speed to match the footsteps. A lawyer? An ally? Whoever it is doesn’t belong here, has the women hopeful and the guards squirming. 

They’re in her corridor now, nearing her door. Clarke presses her nose to the window, hoping for a glimpse of the stranger as they pass. She’s met with a whiff of stale ale and onions as a mouth appears inches from her face.

‘Stand back, inmate,’ the mouth commands.

Clarke needs little encouragement to put distance between herself and the funk.

The door opens and the guard eyes her coolly before deferentially stepping to the side. Clarke’s heart jumps into her throat. 

It’s not a lawyer or one of her friends. Not even Lucius. Lady Alexandra Woolcott stands in her prison cell in all her inimitable splendor. 

She’d forgotten. Days spent in Lucius’s casual company, in Lexa’s relaxed presence. She’d forgotten the way she could command a room, poise radiating power. Forgotten the imposing quality of her silence, the way you felt compelled to do anything and everything to please her. Forgotten the easy, permeating elegance; alluring, beguiling.

She was dressed the part, a beautifully tailored, forest green dress with a hat to match. But Clarke’s gaze was pulled to her face, the cold emerald eyes that soften the moment they reach Clarke, fill with relief and concern.

‘Leave us,’ she commands, eyes not leaving Clarke. ‘I will speak to the prisoner alone.’

‘But milady, surely that isn’t wise…’

She turns, eyebrow daring her stuttering escort to continue.

‘Surely, your safety,’ he presses on bravely, foolishly.

‘I need to ascertain that Miss Griffin has not been harmed. If you think me in any danger you are more fool than I imagined, which I would’ve thought a rather difficult feat.’

The guard blushes fiercely and hurries from the cell, pulling the door closed behind him.

‘Lexa.’ 

It escapes her the second she gets her breath back; an unbelieving whisper, as if anything louder might scare the apparition away.

\-------

Lexa feels the pull in her chest as her name tumbles from Clarke’s lips. She presses the soles of her feet into the floor in an attempt to ground herself, to keep from rushing to Clarke and pulling her close. Clarke’s look is incredulous, as if Lexa's the last person she expected to see. The tug inside her turns slightly painful at the realization.

‘Have you been treated well, Miss Griffin?’ 

She forces her voice to remain steady and detached, certain they're still being observed. Her arms tingle with the effort of remaining still, of not reaching for her.

‘I wouldn’t say well, my lady, but adequately,’ Clarke replies, apparently catching on. 

Her voice is raspy, sounds almost painful to use. Lexa silently takes in her appearance, the hair matted with grime and blood, the slightly sunken cheeks and parched lips. She wishes she could run her hands over her body, assuring herself that she is indeed whole and well. But sight will have to suffice for now. 

She nods slowly, eyes lingering on Clarke’s. 

‘You were imprisoned under absurd pretenses, Miss Griffin. I expect that to be rectified shortly.’

Her stomach tightens at the awed hope that rises in Clarke’s eyes. 

‘It’s good of you to care, my lady.’

Her voice is quiet but her eyes sparkle with misty gratitude.

Lexa nods in acceptance of her thanks.

‘Justice must be served.’

Clarke smirks slightly at this, or perhaps it’s at the entire Lady Woolcott persona, and Lexa has to valiantly quell the smile from spreading to her own lips. How preposterous it seems, to smile under such circumstances. The Clarke effect, no doubt.

With one last look, just to make sure she’s ok, she turns and leaves the fetid cell, guards falling into step behind her.

She strides purposefully down the hall, aware of the dozens of eyes witnessing her trip to the warden's office.

‘Are you satisfied, milady?’

‘She is alive, but that is about the extent of my satisfaction with this affair. You will hear from my lawyer within the hour, though I hope this visit has made the fallacy of your claims apparent. I would hate to have to initiate an inquiry. One never knows what could happen then.’

The unsaid threat of dismissal hangs in the air, making the squat man visibly quake and nod. He's nodding as Lexa ignores his bow and mumbled assurance and sweeps outside the doors. 

She pauses, filling her lungs with London air that, while not clean, feels positively pure after the pungent prison. She shudders to think of Clarke spending another second in there; hurries to the car where Nyko is holding the door open. 

‘Contact the lawyer assigned to her case, a Mr. Murphy I believe. Tell him he’ll find them ready to release her. Use my name.’ 

A pause. 

‘I want you to pick her up, Nyko. Use Lucius’s car.’

He grunts affirmatively and she settles back, trying to calm her nerves. Clarke is ok. She will be home soon. Safe.

The call came yesterday, just after luncheon. Lincoln was calm when relaying the news, despite Lexa firing questions at him incessantly. It had taken them over a day to locate her, chasing one red herring after another, until Lincoln had finally heard something in a club and set out to confirm it. 

Lexa felt her stomach drop at the news. Of course they had taken her. It had all been too good to be true. She struggled to keep her fear in check, embracing the steely calm that was her ally in crises. Only this time it seemed just beyond her. Nerves reigned supreme, nails digging unconsciously into her palms whenever she was inactive. 

She hurried to conclude her business at the estate, messy but acceptable, and caught the late train back to London. 

Sleep was inconceivable. She paced, stood, sat. Lincoln had several witnesses claiming Clarke had done her utmost to stop the violence. Her arrest was bogus. Still, Lucius’s involvement was risky, both due to the upcoming bill, as well as regarding the extent of his influence. He might not have the pull to get her out without a protracted process. 

There was only one thing left. Clarke knew Lady Woolcott, had made deliveries to her house on several occasions. Naturally, it was unheard of for a lady to get involved in such matters, especially for a delivery girl. But Lexa found she did not care. She only regretted the lengthy hours that must tick by before it would be considered appropriate for her to visit. 

The warden was struck dumb by her arrival. With no precedent for such things, he stammered through their conversation, trying above all to assert his innocence in such matters. After laying out her expectation of Clarke’s immediate release in no uncertain terms, she had demanded to see her. The warden had squirmed at this, half-formed excuses stumbling from his tongue. An imposing cock of her eyebrow had settled the matter. 

It eased her mind somewhat, laying eyes on her. But stirred up all other kinds of worry as well. She still isn't sure Clarke is ok. The image of her trapped in filth, hollow cheeks and bloodied head, makes her want to storm back in and carry her out herself, woe be to anyone who tries to stop her. 

She bites her lip, willing herself to wait. Patience is wisdom here.

Her watch ticks on mockingly.

\-------

She’s at the door before the knock, throwing it open to find Clarke’s fist poised.

‘Hey, stranger.’

She attempts a smile at Clarke’s blasé greeting, pulls her in quickly, risking a hug before the door is quite closed.

‘I’m ok,’ Clarke says, in response to her embrace, but her hands grip Lexa tighter, relief shuddering through her body.

‘Your head,’ Lexa says, pulling away after a minute. 

‘It’s nothing. Head wounds just bleed more.’

But when Lexa’s eyes look doubtful she turns dutifully and lets Lexa examine her. The cut is indeed small. There's swelling, which she prods gently, but it seems to be on its way to healing. Lexa feels the weight lift off her lungs. 

‘How are the others? Octavia? Raven?’

‘They are all well. Worried sick about you, but I will send word that you are here.’

Clarke nods, absorbing this.

‘I…you came for me.’ Clarke’s voice is hesitant, drawing Lexa’s attention immediately back to her face.

‘Of course I did,’ Lexa replies, once again slightly troubled that Clarke would doubt it. ‘I only just heard yesterday. I would've come sooner if I’d known.’

Clarke searches her eyes, expression earnest but unreadable. 

‘It’s just with Finn, you said it wasn’t worth risking everything for one person. And I get that,' she rushes to add. 'What we’re doing is bigger. I didn’t expect…’

‘You’re not ‘one person’, Clarke. I couldn’t, not you…’

Lexa hates the way her voice trails off, how small it sounds. Had Clarke expected her to be stronger?

But then her eyes grow soft and incredulous and she’s kissing her hard and hungrily like she’s done good. And Lexa doesn’t care that a whine escapes her throat or that her hands cling to the front of Clarke’s clothes, needing her closer.

‘You came for me,’ she says again.

And now her kiss tastes like a smile and Lexa feels it growing inside her, fixing everything the anxiety of the last few days broke. 

‘I’m sorry, baby,’ she says, term slipping carelessly from her lips. ‘Here I am, the embodiment of prison filth, pressing up against the envy of London.’

Lexa smiles, feeling the heat in her ears. Baby? She likes the playful lilt Clarke gives it.

‘A bath is drawn for you upstairs. I propose we burn your clothes,' she adds, eyeing the offensive garments repulsively.

‘Hear, hear,’ Clarke replies. ‘I’ll be back in a day or so. I fully intend to soak until I feel human again.’

‘It takes as long as it takes,’ she says softly, squeezing her hand.

Clarke kicks off her grimy shoes and begins climbing the stairs.

‘Honestly, though, I nearly ascended to Paradise when I saw you today, equal parts gorgeous and terrifying. I don’t know if that prison will ever recover.’

Lexa blushes again, shakes her head dismissively. 

‘Off with you, now. That bath isn’t getting any warmer.’

Clarke smiles knowingly at her reaction, turns and sprints upstairs. 

Lexa sighs, leaning hard against the door. Clarke is safe. The rest can do their worst. 

\-------

Clarke emerges the better part of an hour later feeling almost herself again. Her clothes were left in a bag in the corner of the bathroom to be disposed of later. She smiles at the sight of the chemise laid out on the bed, running her fingers over the soft fabric. There’s a dressing gown too, dark with a tasteful floral pattern at the bottom. She sighs in pleasure at the feel of fresh clothes on her skin. She can’t help a little dalliance at the mirror on the way out, smirking at the handsomely dressed blonde that greets her--hair restored to normal color again after the reddish brown hue of blood and grime. 

She pads down the stairs in borrowed stockings, finding Lexa absorbed in a mountain of documents in the study. She looks up from her desk as Clarke enters, smile brightening her features at the sight.

‘You’re looking decidedly better.’

‘I feel decidedly better. Thanks for the clothes,’ Clarke replies, opening her arms slightly in display. 

Lexa’s smile widens. ‘They suit you.’

She motions Clarke to the couch as she rises to uncover a bowl in the corner. The meaty aroma hits Clarke’s nostrils and her stomach growls shamelessly. 

‘I’m afraid it’s only broth,’ Lexa chuckles apologetically. ‘I telephoned a doctor who said you need to start slowly and give your stomach a little time. Breakfast will be better.’

Clarke nods, accepting the bowl. It’s warm and wonderful in her hands. It tastes of meat and vegetables, and Clarke decides that this is what Heaven must taste like. She forces herself to take slow careful bites instead of slurping it down in one go like she wants to. Lexa watches her in contented silence.

‘That was amazing!’ Clarke declares when she’s finished. ‘And I don’t think it’s just because I was starving.’

‘I’m pleased,’ Lexa replies, smiling again.

‘God, Lexa, it was awful in there,’ she continues, features darkening slightly. ‘Those women, they try to be brave, but it’s hard when you know that no matter what you do the guards can still make your day hell on a whim.

‘It’s worse for suffragists too. It’s like they’re personally offended by us and have taken it upon themselves to halt our efforts by keeping us locked up for as long as possible.’

Lexa purses her lips pensively. ‘Did you feel like their treatment of you was particularly bad?’

‘Well, yes,’ Clarke replies after a pause, ‘but it’s only ‘cause they singled me out as a ringleader. Emori also got the brunt of things. There has to be something we can do for them, Lex.’

‘I’ll put you in touch with their lawyer, a Mr. John Murphy. Your case should help set a precedent which will facilitate their release.’

Clarke nods eagerly.

‘But first, you must rest. You’re not going anywhere until you have your strength back.’

‘They don’t get much rest.’

The silence is heavy, filled with thoughts of that horrible place and the innocent women still there. 

‘You said the others are ok?’

Lexa nods. ‘I spoke to Lincoln. There were a few cuts and bruises, but they all helped break up the riot and disperse shortly after you were taken.’

‘But not everyone got away.’

Lexa pauses. ‘No. Thirteen others were arrested. Sixteen more were sent to hospital with serious injuries. Two constables had broken bones as well.’

Clarke closes her eyes, swallowing as she presses her head back into the sofa. Eighteen people wounded.

‘It’s all my fault,’ she says quietly. ‘I brought them together. I got up there and told them to fight for their rights. It was my words that spurred them to action. People were in danger because of me, hurt because of me.’

‘That’s what it means to be a leader, Clarke. We must look into the eyes of our followers and tell them, ‘Go fight for me.’ Her voice is soft, soothing. 

‘I never meant for any of this to happen. Passive protest, I told them. I tried. I-’

She stops, biting her lip to keep the tears from falling. She’s overtired and overly emotional. What must Lexa think of her?

Lexa places a hand over hers, squeezing slightly. 

‘You cannot control what people will do, Clarke. Just because you brought them together does not mean you are accountable for every one of their actions. We cannot predict every outcome.’

Clarke shakes her head. She knows it’s true, she just doesn’t feel like it is. In the long sleepless nights, she couldn’t help turning things over and over in her head, wondering if she could have changed things if she’d only said or done something different. 

‘Besides,’ Lexa continues, ‘who knows what revolutions are made of. It is not a single big action that turns the tide, but hundreds and thousands of smaller actions, chipping away at the dominant force to make way for the new. We want more than anything for it to be peaceful and painless, for a rational transition of power without blood spilled. But perhaps it cannot be. Perhaps there is need for discomfort before change. It is the cycle of life.’

Her voice is quiet and Clarke finds her words strangely soothing, though she has not the energy to reply. She sighs instead, leaning her head on Lexa’s shoulder, reveling in the familiar smell of her hair. Her breath slows, evening out as she thinks of Lexa’s words. 

She watches Lexa’s fingers trace her palm between them, delicate patterns from wrist to fingertip and back. 

‘What will you do when this is over?’ Lexa’s voice is soft but still rouses Clarke from her silent spectating.

She scoffs a little. ‘No one’s ever asked me that before.’ 

Lexa remains silent, waiting for more. Her hand continues its caress, a soothing dance of circles and curves. She could watch her fingers for hours. 

‘I’ve just been so focused with winning this. I haven’t really thought of what comes next.’

‘Well, what do you want?’

Her question is so simple, so sincerely curious, that it gives Clarke pause, makes her consider her answer carefully before replying.

‘I want to be a doctor. You’ve heard of Elizabeth Garrett Anderson, I’m sure. She’s a hero to any feminist, blazing the trail for women in medicine. She even opened her own school, an all-female school for doctors. If I had to pick one dream after this, attending that school would be it.’

She’s a little surprised at her confession. She hasn’t thought of that in years, not since becoming consumed with the suffrage movement. It was her father who had filled her mind with stories of Anderson and her American counterpart and namesake, Elizabeth Blackwell. She realizes now how much she still wants it.

‘Well then, that’s what you’ll do,’ Lexa pronounces.

‘Just like that, huh?’

‘Just like that,’ she agrees. ‘But first, I believe a good night’s rest is in order. Conquering the world can wait a little longer.’

Clarke chuckles but does not protest. She allows Lexa to lead her to the room (Their room. She can’t think of it as anything else) and dim the lights before joining her in bed. She doesn’t know if it’s the warmth of the bed or the feeling of Lexa pressed against her, but the exhaustion of the past few days overtakes her and she falls asleep before ‘Goodnight, Lexa’ has quite left her lips.


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not everyone is happy about Lexa's recent heroics.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope your Friday is more exciting than mine, meaning when you read this it isn't a Friday at all but some boring weekday that needs a bit of Clexa.
> 
> If, however, you find yourself prowling through cyberspace as I am, welcome and cheers to us and may both our evenings be a little brighter.

Clarke stirs just as Lexa is fitting the burgundy hat to her head. Alexandra today, although nothing too chic. She’s only going home after all. Still she dons her clothes as a sort of armor in anticipation to what she might find when she gets there. 

‘Sneaking out before dawn? Way to make a woman feel cheap.’

Lexa smiles at the gravelly voice coming from the bed. Clarke’s hair is awry, a mane of rebellious tresses adorning sleepy eyes and cheeks that still bear wrinkle marks from the sheets. She’s never looked more beautiful.

‘Well that won’t do at all,’ Lexa replies coyly, taking a few steps toward the bed. ‘What must one do to assure you of your inestimable worth?’

‘That’s a pretty good start already, sweet talker.’

Lexa smiles as she reaches the bed, leans down till her breath feathers Clarke’s lips. 

‘How about this?’

‘Mmh, getting better.’

Her kiss is soft on Lexa’s lips, surprisingly tender. It has all the languidness of sleep mixed with earnestness, as if trying to communicate something both essential and ineffable. Lexa pulls back, regarding her for a moment, fingers tracing a scratch on her forehead. A flash of her in that awful place. The ghost of a shudder. That feeling again, simultaneously expanding and squeezing her chest. Too big. 

She takes a breath to steady herself, try for some semblance of self-possession.

‘I’ll be back with clothes for you this afternoon. In the meantime, rest.’

‘I’m not an invalid,’ Clarke pouts, but Lexa can see the tiredness in her eyes, the almost childish desire to be made to do what she wants most without having to admit to it. 

‘It’s non-negotiable,’ she replies, pressing their lips together again. ‘You can’t very well run down the streets in a dressing gown.’

‘You watch me,’ Clarke blusters back.

Lexa laughs, kissing the swagger from her lips. 

‘Soon.’

Clarke tugs at her hat as they part, leaving it just a little askew. A quick glance in the mirror confirms it’s infinitely better this way. And Lexa is, as always, decidedly objective where Clarke is concerned.

\------- 

She steps softly into the front hall, hoping to find the house quiet, to slip into her study unobserved. Yesterday’s events will bring turmoil enough without the added offense of her night-long absence. A pretense of normal morning routine might help diffuse the situation.

No such luck.

‘Alexandra, what the devil have you done?’ 

His voice is booming, no thought given for what servants might be within earshot. It’s a telling gauge for his fury. Appearances are everything to him.

She straightens slightly, a small tightening of her jaw the only sign that his outburst has her the least bit perturbed.

‘Whatever do you mean, Theodore?’ she replies, tone bordering boredom as if he were throwing a wobbly for nothing.

‘You know exactly what I mean,’ he spits back, enraged at having to say it. ‘Going down to that filthy place, using your name, _my_ name, to get some suffragette out of prison? Does insanity run in your family?’

Lexa’s teeth clench to control the rage that wells up inside her, balled fists hiding the nails digging into her palms. _Her family_. He’s hitting low, the one thing he knows she values, the name she would much rather bear if she had the choice. 

Her face remains impassive but her tone is ice when she replies. ‘I prevented a young woman from suffering for crimes she did not commit. The appalling state of our justice system is the only shameful element in this affair.’

‘Crimes she didn’t commit? I had my associates chew my ear off all evening. She’s not just a suffragette, she’s an instigator, personally responsible for the riot outside the House that undermined the noblewomen’s testimony. She deserved to never see the outside of that cell.’

His voice rises with each word, face turning an ugly purple color as he closes in until he’s so near she can’t avoid his sprayed spittle. She cringes internally at what Clarke would think of being called a suffragette, but she remains unmoved, refusing to give him the upper hand by flinching away. 

‘Organizing a protest is not a crime. Over a dozen witnesses swore her involvement was strictly passive.’

‘Strictly passive? What are you, a bloody barrister for the opposition now? You sound like that deplorable cousin of yours.’

Lexa feels the flame of anger again but doesn’t take the bait. The less attention she draws to her cousin the better. He will tire himself out on his own.

‘The only reason I married you, Alexandra, was for my reputation. God knows you give me little else. That is the one term of our arrangement. And what do you do? You prance around prisons and bring shame on my name.’¬

‘What manner of small-mindedness sees justice as shameful?’ 

The cutting chill of her tone drives the insult home. 

His jowls shudder at the offense, mouth setting into an ugly sneer that has Lexa’s fighting instincts ready to parry.

‘Enough!’ he yells. 

Naturally. When logic fails him, volume is his weapon of choice.

‘I will not be insulted by my wife in my own house. Undermine me again and your next domestic project will end up in the poorhouse.’

‘You wouldn’t dare!’ Lexa replies instantly, voice low and dangerous. Her eyes narrow, daggers meeting his beefy face unflinchingly. 

It’s as if a bucket of ice has been poured on his anger. Lord Woolcott takes a step back, eyeing her warily.

‘Just uphold your end of the deal and I’ll uphold mine,’ he replies in a calmer tone, not ready to admit defeat, but judging it unwise to test her further. 

She doesn’t reply, merely keeps her steely eyes on him until he leaves the hall. 

\-------

When Clarke wakes again the sun is high in the sky. It’s strange to wake feeling rested, even if her limbs are a bit stiff from hours of sleep. She stretches luxuriously in Lexa’s bed, loving the feel of her sheets beneath her body. Clarke’s life has mostly been about practicality, making do with what she has, scarcely having or doing things just because they felt good. But lying there, the simple pleasure of Lexa’s crisp sheets against her skin as she’s enveloped in her lingering smell, she feels like she could easily get used to that.

A grumble from her stomach brings her mind back to necessity. 

Right. 

Lexa said she’d be back with clothes, but nothing about food. Surely, the brilliant strategist that is Lady Alexandra ‘Lucius Woods’ Woolcott would have deduced that Clarke would require sustenance on awakening. She throws on the robe from the night before and pads down to the kitchen in bare feet. The sun is warm today and the floor is a crisscross of hot and cold, depending on where the light hit. 

The kitchen is large, about the size of the entire pharmacy, but scarcely used. Come to think of it, she’s only ever been here once before in what had started as a midnight quest for water. Her lips curl slightly as she gives the counter a knowing nod. 

There is a small spread in the corner covered with a towel. Underneath she finds scones, cream, rolls, sandwiches, and fruit, along with an assortment of tea bags. Her stomach growls again and she decides standing barefoot in Lexa’s kitchen is just the place to appease the beast. She full on moans with pleasure when the first bite of creamy scone lathers her taste buds. Sweet goddess, bless whatever divine hands created this manna. Or something slightly more restrained when translated from the language of prison-starved hunger. 

Clarke makes short work of the spread, pacing herself so as not to plunge her digestive system into meltdown. But last night’s broth seems to have helped pave the way and it goes down smoothly. 

Only afterwards does she realize it is entirely possible that someone else could pay Lucius a visit. There was always a steady trickle of people coming by when she was here before, Lincoln or Marcus or Nyko, and she becomes all too aware of her present state of undress. With that thought in mind she carries her tea back to the room and decides to peruse Lexa’s closet. 

There are a few dresses, lavish with stylish cuts and exquisite trimmings. Clarke holds them up against her body, sashaying and twirling in front of the mirror, smiling at the memory of the party attended on Lucius’s arm. But they are far too elegant for a day in the study, even if she were the Queen of England. She replaces them carefully, and a slow grin spreads across her face as she eyes the other clothes. That’s more like it. 

She selects a pair of gray slacks, a crisp white shirt and suspenders, not bothering with a jacket but opting for rolling the sleeves up to her elbow instead. She smiles at her reflection, the way the shirt is pulled taught over the voluptuous curve of her breasts, suspenders conveniently covering the perceptible swells of her nipples. Well, passing for a man would be quite a feat for her. Still, there was something to be said for the way the outfit seems accentuate her curves while adding a touch of masculinity. 

She frowns suddenly, returning to rummage in the top shelf. She snags a light gray homburg hat that matches the slacks famously. Well, of course it does. Lexa is nothing if not a meticulous dresser. Her brow crinkles in puzzlement as her hand encounters something hard in the corner near it. Her smile grows a little stupid as she discovers Lexa’s prize brownie camera snug in its case. 

Excellent. 

On opening the case, she finds a small, brown envelope tucked into the corner. Not being one for prudence when curiosity is at play, she opens it, careful not to wrinkle the flap. She smiles at the sight of Lexa, sitting in her chair that chilly afternoon she’d invited Clarke to help her test her new camera. The photographs are good, only slightly out of focus, which adds a bit of an otherworldly touch to Lexa’s regality. Warmth rushes through her as she remembers the day, the awe as she mentally traced the lines and curves of Lexa’s features, enjoying the excuse to let her gaze linger openly. The slight blush that crept onto Lexa’s cheeks when Clarke told her she was beautiful. 

How foolish she was, thinking her attraction purely platonic. But looking back now, she wonders if it ever really was. It’s always been different with Lexa. The air changes between them. Charged. Shimmering. 

She places the photographs on the nearby dresser, still smiling at the memory. She’ll have to ask Lexa for one to warm the lonely nights back at the pharmacy. 

She reaches for the hat again, propping it onto her head at a jaunty, lopsided angle that matches her sleeves. She aims the lenses at the mirror, trying out a couple faces before settling on a rather smoldering look (if she may say so herself) lips slightly parted, though not quite in a smile, blue eyes staring intently back at her in the glass. 

‘My, my, you do look rather dashing.’

Clarke can’t help the foolish grin that spreads across her face at the sound of Lexa’s voice. She turns to see Lucius leaning on the doorframe, a stack of dresses in her hand. 

‘Here I come, bearing sartorial gifts, only to find they are sure to be spurned.’

‘Ah, but you’ve brought me the thing I want most,’ Clarke replies, smiling devilishly.

She saunters slowly towards Lexa, whose smile widens in anticipation with every step. She leans in, running her nose teasingly against Lexa’s, fingers ghosting her jaw. Lexa’s lips part slightly and she leans forward involuntarily, seeking contact. 

Only that’s when Clarke snatches the mustache off her face and springs back with a little cry of triumph. 

‘Why Clarke Griffin, you _are_ a minx.’

‘Of that, milady, I may just have to plead guilty as charged,’ she replies, fastening the mustache to her face and tipping her hat gallantly. 

Lexa’s eyes twinkle, amusement replacing any chagrin at being denied a kiss. 

Clarke studiously winds the film before striking another pose, sterner this time as befits the whiskers. Lexa moves to stand behind her after the click, arms circling her waist loosely. 

‘It is nice to see where your heart truly lies, Clarke,’ she says into her neck. 

‘Mmh, and don’t you forget it,’ she answers clicking again, hoping to have caught them both in the mirror this time. 

That’s about the extent of her self-control. Lexa’s lips are hot and greedy on her neck, a hint of teeth just punishment for her teasing, as her hands trail freely along her front, toying with the suspenders. She fumbles blindly to place the camera on the dresser before turning to meet her lips. Her stomach swoops at the contact and she’s struck once more by strength of her own reaction. But it’s Lexa. There’s always been something undeniable primal about her attraction to Lexa.

She tilts Lexa’s hat back to deepen the kiss, hungry for the taste of her, for the brush of her tongue that sends tingles through her body. 

Then comes the _thud_ in the hall. They break apart just as Octavia’s face appears in the door, eyes widening ever more as she tries to make sense of the peculiar scene that greets her. It’s a lot to take in. Clarke in a homburg and mustache, Lexa somewhere between Lucius and Alexandra, both their clothes slightly disheveled. Their telling proximity, guilty expressions and kiss-bruised lips. If she didn’t actually see them kissing (and Clarke isn’t entirely sure she didn’t) there’s plenty of evidence to go on.

‘Clarke,’ she manages to get out after an extraordinary amount of deliberation. ‘Mr. Woods, that is…’

Her catastrophic greeting is mercifully cut short by Lincoln’s appearance.

‘Oh blazes,’ Lincoln mutters. 

Lexa shoots him a look that could burn through steel.

‘I thought we were only meeting at three,’ he hurries to explain. ‘Octavia’s been pestering me for a visual confirmation of Clarke’s freedom and I thought... Shit. We’ll…we’ll wait in the study.’

He hurries to pull Octavia after him, much to her dislike.

‘Well I think a whole litter of cats got out of the bag there.’

Clarke’s chuckle at her own joke is immediately silenced when she turns to Lexa. Her face is white and stony still.

‘She won’t say anything, Lexa.’

A muscle works in her jaw. A swallow.

‘You can’t be sure of that, Clarke. Too many people know.’

‘Hey,’ Clarke reaches out to take her hand in an attempt to steady her. ‘I know Octavia, we were kids together. She’s incredibly loyal.’

‘But to whom,’ Lexa asks quietly, eyes finally rising to meet Clarke’s. She hates how fear darkens the jade. 

‘I presume she is loyal to her brother as well, and I’m sorry, Clarke, but I simply do not trust him.’

She feels a pull at the way Lexa says her name, something between a plea and an determined statement of her position.

‘I’ll talk to her,’ Clarke answers, as reassuringly as she can manage. ‘She’ll keep it to herself. Trust me.’

Lexa’s eyes still look doubtful as they search Clarke’s, wanting to trust her, but evidently not sharing her certainty in Octavia’s discretion. After a moment, she nods. 

‘I do trust you, Clarke.’ 

The words are quiet, barely above a whisper. Clarke feels as the magnanimity of the gift.

There’s a heaviness in her eyes today, only partly masked by their joviality earlier. Clarke reaches up, stroking her cheek with the backs of her fingers, aching to take it away. Her kiss is tender, slow. She pours all she cannot say into it. All the caring and affection and protective instinct. All the lo-

No. Not yet. 

Lexa breaks the kiss gently, fondly pulling Clarke’s hat back down. 

‘I have business with Lincoln. You may stay for as long as you like, though there are,’ she pauses, eyes lingering on the way Clarke’s breasts strain at the buttons of her shirt, ‘more street-friendly clothes for you when you wish to depart.’

Clarke smiles and pulls her in for one last kiss. 

‘You’re kind of perfect, you know.’

\-------

Octavia storms in moments later, eyes still wide as saucers.

‘Holy shit, Clarke! Is that really…Tell me that isn’t…All this time?’

Clarke rolls her eyes.

‘Breathe, O,’ she replies in a resigned tone. This is happening.

‘I just can’t. Alexandra Woolcott is Lucius? Do you realize what we have here, Clarke? He’s our strongest opponent. If she speaks out in favor of the vote...God that could change everything. Is this what you’ve been planning all along? It’s brilliant!’

Clarke hesitates a moment. ‘Lucius will present the Bill tomorrow as planned.’

‘But why?’ Octavia’s tone rises an octave. ‘This could be just the thing. It’s apparent she doesn’t much fancy her husband anyway.’ This with a rather pointed look at Clarke.

Clarke opens her mouth to answer, then realizes she doesn’t quite know why. Only that Lexa is always adamant about it.

‘She needs to protect her cover. If it doesn’t work out, she’ll still be in a position to try again.’

‘That doesn’t make any damn sense. You think we’ll win this thing by being cautious? Hell you just got out of jail, Clarke. We’re all risking everything.’

Clarke swallows a sigh. She hates how Octavia’s words ring true. But she’s torn between saying so and her loyalty to Lexa, the desire to trust her indiscriminately. 

She settles for a simple, ‘I’ll ask her.’

Octavia nods.

‘But you can’t say anything, O. Not to Raven or Bellamy. Especially not Bellamy.’

Her eyes darken at this. 

‘Why _especially_ not Bellamy?’

‘You know how he’s been about me spending time with Lucius. If he found out…’

‘Don’t you think they have a right to know who we’re dealing with? We’ve all shown our cards, she should do the same.’

‘I trust her,’ Clarke says, a slightly forceful edge in her tone. ‘She’s with us, O. That has to be enough for now.’

Octavia sighs but nods in acquiescence. Clarke knows she’ll keep quiet. Octavia is not a talker by nature.

‘So,’ she says, an almost playful lilt to her voice after after the awkward silence, ‘a woman, huh? Does this mean you’re gay?’

Boy Octavia does not mess around. 

The question comes as a shock to Clarke. Not that it should. Not that she shouldn’t have been expecting it. She just honestly hadn’t thought about it. She hadn’t heard much about homosexuality, having been mostly too young to appreciate the scandal of Oscar Wilde’s trials and imprisonment. The most she’s heard are disjointed, disapproving whispers of people being ‘that way’, followed by condemning shakes of their heads. As if even saying the word could sully one’s tongue. It rang of lewd decadence, unnatural, immoral practices undertaken in dark corners and lecherous parties. 

Maybe that’s why she hadn’t thought of it. Being with Lexa isn’t about any of that. It’s just about Lexa. It’s warm and natural, passionate; strange only in the overwhelming force of her attraction. It’s tender and protective, like home. It feels wrong to associate it with a term synonymous with debauchery. But then, what if that association is wrong too, like the use of ‘suffragist’ as a dirty word.

Clarke suddenly regains awareness of her surroundings, of Octavia watching her still, smirking slightly at her failure to reply. 

‘I’m…I don’t know. I’m a bit mad about her, I think.’

Clarke’s looks up, sheepish, wholly surprised at the confession. But telling Octavia things before she quite knew them herself is kind of a long-term habit. 

Octavia grins. 

‘I’ll say! I haven’t seen you this happy since…I was gonna say since I let you try out your first sutures on my leg, but that seems a bit too macabre to compare to love. You gotta start getting happy about less disturbing things, Griffin.’ A pause. ‘I guess you kind of are.’

Clarke smiles widely ‘cause Octavia gets it, what with being hopelessly enamored with Lincoln. Aren’t they a pair.

‘Well, now that I’ve established that you’re alive and well enough to engage in illicit trysts, I say we head back to the pharmacy. Raven will literally kill me if I come back without you.’

She nods, eyes the pile of dresses Lexa left her. She allows herself one last look in the mirror, thumbing her suspenders gaily. 

Octavia shakes her head. ‘Come on, Clarke. You can play dress-up in your lover’s clothes later.’ 

Clarke shoots her a dirty look, but can’t help the smile that pulls at her lips. It feels pretty good to have Octavia know; to know she’s ok with it, that all she sees is an opportunity to tease Clarke for how stupidly infatuated she is. 

She changes quickly and heads for the door, pausing at the dresser on her way out. After a few moments she selects a photograph, the one where Lexa is staring straight into the camera, lips set, eyes daring, enticing; radiating the kind of intensity Clarke loves to kiss from her face. Lexa won’t mind. She has mirrors after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: The first selfie was taken by Robert Cornelius in 1839, so Clarke is hardly a trail-blazer in that regard.


	19. Chapter 19

Lexa paces, rehearsing her speech, arms gesturing slightly as she subvocalizes. She has the points down of course, has had for weeks, but she wants to get the cadence and tone right, something that rings both urgent and grandiose, like this is their chance to make a history that should’ve been made long ago. 

Her eyes keep darting to the clock, another hour before she can make up some errand in town and leave to prepare. Not that she owes the staff any justifications, but too many unexplained absences lead to greater scrutiny, and that makes everything just a little more difficult. 

She’s not too worried about Theodore. Yes, his ego was bruised, but she’s dealt with that pretty much since the start. He does like his threats, but moving against her would tarnish his own reputation too, something he’d never do. _The poorhouse_. She doesn’t think he cared enough to oppose her on that front either. Besides, if the bill gets passed in the House of Commons he’ll be up to his neck trying to fight Marcus on it in the House of Lords. That’ll keep him busy, focused away from her.

The bill. She goes back to rehearsing, steps vibrant and determined. It has to go through. Goddess, it has too.

The knock, though gentle, startles her slightly. 

She expressly told Gustus she was not to be disturbed until it was time to go. A quick glance at the clock—all of three minutes since her last look—tells her it’s too early for that. 

‘Come,’ she calls, even as a little chill runs through her. 

It must be important if they’re interrupting her. Her mind immediately runs to Clarke. She swallows down the premature fear.

‘Milady,’ Gustus’s voice is apologetic. ‘Lady Albin is here. I told her you were busy but she insists. Says she can wait until you ‘find the time to grace her with your presence.’ I thought it best to get it out of the way as early as possible.’

Lexa’s lips thin at the prospect of a visit from the ice queen, but she nods curtly. Gustus made the right call. The sooner she gets rid of her the better.

‘My dear Alexandra.’

Lexa turns to greet her, not missing how her saccharine tone clashes with the ice in her eyes and her imposing handshake. Lexa meets them both, force for force. Her lips take care of the pleasantries. 

‘Why, Nia, how good of you to drop in. I didn’t expect the pleasure of seeing you before Henrietta’s little soiree.’

The implication is clear: what are you doing here?

‘Well, I couldn’t very well not come, could I? Not after I heard about Thursday. I just had to come by and make sure you were alright after visiting that dreadful place.’

But of course. She’d heard about her springing Clarke from prison. Not something she’d take lightly considering the circumstances of Clarke’s arrest. 

‘Imagine my surprise when I first heard of it. I thought Margaret was having a laugh at me, you know how she can be. I said you wouldn’t dream of such a thing, not when she’d put our lives in danger, not to mention your husband’s rightful opposition of the suffragettes’ ridiculous cause. When she assured me—and I called Thomas to confirm—that it was indeed so, well I said to myself, ‘I must go over and ascertain that dear Alexandra has not suffered a concussion or some other form of illness that’s made her completely lose her sense of reason.’’

‘I assure you, I am quite well,’ Lexa replies, smile thinning.

‘Well,’ she continues, slightly patronizing, ‘the only other explanation would be that you hadn’t got your facts right, an excusable mistake when you’ve had so much else on your mind. Congratulations, by the way.’

‘Thank you.’ 

The smile is gone now. Lexa can’t be bothered to care. Nia’s opinions are quite obvious and there is no one else to put on a show for.

‘But then,’ she continues, in a half-laugh, ‘then I thought, ‘I’ve heard of this girl before.’ Which as you can imagine, struck me as very odd indeed; considering I never dabble in hoi polloi gossip. Only I’d heard she’d been seen stepping out with your cousin Lucius of late, a peculiar match, but then we all know your cousin has always been a bit of a blemish on his name.’ She rolls her eyes snobbishly.

Lexa’s blood turns so cold at the connection between Clarke and Lucius slipping so easily from Nia’s lips, she almost misses the insult to her family. But she straightens her already impeccable posture, squaring her shoulders to face the taller woman. 

‘This is the first I’m hearing of it,’ she replies coolly. 

‘Yes, well, that’s another thing that’s been on my mind of late.’ Her tone is low now, dangerously triumphant. ‘I don’t believe I’ve ever seen you and your cousin together. Even at family gatherings, your wedding of all things. He seems to be always unavoidably detained. Curious.’ Her lip quirks up, malice glimmering in her eyes.

Lexa presses her nails into her palm to hide her shudder. _She knows_. Or at very least, suspects. Unlike her husband, Nia would have no qualms about ripping her to shreds. 

‘Unfortunately, emergencies have little respect for plans, even weddings.’ 

She knows she’s reaching. Nia sees it to.

‘That may be,’ Nia concedes generously. ‘But imagine my surprise when it was you, not him, who turned up as his lady’s knight in shining armor.’

‘I saw a woman unlawfully imprisoned and felt it my duty to intervene. Injustice has always been a sort of pet peeve of mine.’ 

Her eyes meet Nia’s unflinchingly. 

‘I would be careful how I used that word.’ The admonishment sounds awfully like a threat. ‘I spoke to the police commissioner myself—surely you can imagine my interest after a simple testimony given by women of standing was transformed into a violent street riot—and he assured me that the offenders had been apprehended and dealt with.’

Lexa feels the blood drain from her face. She searches the gleam in Nia’s eyes. There it is. Clarke’s arrest was no circumstantial accident. Anger flares inside her. She burns to cast aside all pretenses of propriety and tell Nia that if she so much as lays a finger on Clarke again, she will end her and everything she holds dear. 

But Nia is smirking now and Lexa curses herself when she realizes the timing of it all. If Nia suspects she’s Lucius, she has to know she’s about to leave for the House of Commons. She wants her angry, shaken, off her game. Wants her to say or do something that will essentially result in self-sabotage. 

Lexa forces breath into her lungs, wills her muscles to unclench. Nia’s gloat drops ever so slightly as she watches Lexa’s face return to pleasant impassivity.

‘Well then, let’s both be glad that our justice system acts as an impartial agent.’

Nia sneers slightly, eyes twinkling with amused malice. _So this is how you want to play it? Very well, I welcome a worthy adversary._

‘Oh my pride in this great nation is unwavering,’ she replies.

‘You’ll excuse me,’ Lexa says after a beat. ‘Normally I would ask you to luncheon, but as you dropped in unexpectedly I haven’t had a chance to cancel my prior arrangements. I really must dash.’

‘But of course, dear,’ Nia replies, stepping forward to offer her her hand once more. ‘And if you do see your cousin, send him my regards.’

Her cold smile fills Lexa with dread.

She sighs once she’s gone, pacing even more furiously. They hadn’t been careful enough. She went after Clarke, singled her out, made her suffer just because... _because she was hers._

She presses her eyes closed, willing the image of Clarke—hungry, hurt, filthy and degraded—from her mind. This is exactly what she was afraid of. There are enough battles to fight, enough risks and dangers every day, without her adding to Clarke’s struggle. It’s one thing for Clarke to suffer as an inevitable side effect of fighting for their rights. It’s quite another when Lexa is the cause of it because some noblewoman has a personal vendetta against her. 

\-------

Clarke is thrilled to find the plans for today’s manifestation well underway. Raven has more than risen to the occasion, somehow managing to keep morale high, prevent Bellamy from doing anything stupid, and organize a plan of action. She’s threatened everyone involved into keeping it strictly peaceful, and, while painfully oxymoronic, it appears to have worked. Considering it’s their bill being discussed inside, the mood will be one of support and, hopefully, celebration. 

After assuring everyone that she’s fine, and earning a rather prolonged hug from Raven in which she pronounces her breasts slightly smaller than during their last hug, Clarke jumps right into the last minute preparations, happy to hit the ground running. As the morning progresses, Octavia keeps eyeing her pointedly, head tilted towards the clock. Her implication is none too subtle. 

Clarke sighs. She doesn’t relish the thought of springing this on Lexa at the last minute. But she does feel like she owes it to them—those here, Emori and the others in jail—to at least bring it up. In any case, she wants to see Lexa before she leaves for the House. 

Gustus’s face goes a little pale at the sight of her, but he checks the halls and ushers her upstairs quickly, straight to Lexa’s quarters rather than her study. When Clarke opens her mouth to ask why, he curtly explains that Lexa has company and will be up shortly. 

Clarke moves about the room, examining trinkets on her vanity, running her hands along the silk of her robe, taking in the view from her window. She likes it here, in a room filled with Lexa. She smiles a little at the thought of her among her things. 

The door swings open and Lexa walks in, looking harried. She freezes at the sight of Clarke, eyes wide with almost more fear than shock. 

‘Clarke.’

Her name is an exhale, surprised, worried. Not exactly the welcome she hoped for. 

‘Hey.’ She tries a smile, figuring Lexa must be all nerves on this day of days. 

‘Were you seen? Coming here? Coming in?’

‘I don’t think so,’ Clarke replies, slightly puzzled. She’s always careful, why this sudden obsession with caution.

Lexa sighs crossing to the bathroom where she palms cold water onto her face before turning to Clarke. Clarke is properly worried now. She’s never seen Lexa like this. She waits for Lexa to speak.

‘Nia was here,’ she says by way of explanation. 

_Ah._

‘She knows, that is, she suspects, that Lucius and I might be the same person.’

Clarke’s eyes widen at the news. 

‘Did she say so?’

‘Not in so many words,’ Lexa replies with a sigh, ‘but she seemed pretty certain. She knows we’re close, was behind your arrest. I’m beginning to think the whole ploy with the noblewomen’s testimony was just bait to draw me out. If she scandalously discredits Lucius, the whole bill goes up in smoke.’

Lexa’s tone is tired, frustrated with herself for not seeing this sooner. There’s worry swimming in her eyes. Guilt too. She bloody tries to take responsibility for everything. 

‘We can fight this, Lexa,’ Clarke rallies. 

Lexa stills and looks at her.

‘I was thinking, their main arguments against women are that women are clueless about the affairs of state, uninterested and incapable of valuable contributions. But you, you’re the very embodiment of the woman they say doesn’t exist; brilliant, insightful, informed, determined. You going in there as a woman and speaking on our behalf would be the greatest proof possible of why we deserve the vote. If we want them to respect women, we need to fight as women.’

She stops when she notices how Lexa’s jaw tightens at the realization of what Clarke is asking. Silence hangs between them. Uncomfortable. It’s never been uncomfortable before. 

‘I can’t, Clarke. We’ve been through this.’ Her voice is weary, almost pleading, imploring Clarke not to add to the weights she’s already juggling. 

Clarke hates seeing her like this. Wants to fight the whole damn world just to give her some peace. She hates that her words are making it harder. But her stubbornness won’t give up that easily. Sometimes the best path requires a bit of discomfort.

‘What are you afraid of, Lexa? You see this farce as your protection, but it’s also your prison. It’s risky, yes, but what could you lose that has any value to you? I see you, Lexa. I can’t imagine there’s anything about this life you enjoy. If it could be the move that wins this for us, isn’t it worth the shot?’

Lexa’s sigh borders on a scoff. 

‘Nothing I do is for my own enjoyment, Clarke. Well,’ she pauses, eyes growing tender for a moment as she turns to Clarke, ‘almost nothing.’

Clarke cracks a sad smile at the inference, despite the way Lexa’s tragic acknowledgment pulls at her heart.

‘People depend on me. I would love nothing more than to go in there and declare my ardent desire for women to vote, tell them it’s high time to end their misogynistic bigotry. But then what? There would be no coming back. Lucius has taken years to build up. If Nia and Theodore and all those opposed crush this attempt, I would be powerless to undertake any future action. It simply isn’t prudent.’

‘Not prudent?’ Clarke feels a swell of anger at the word. ‘Tell that to those who put themselves out there without a safety net, Lexa, without a second home and fake life to fall back on.’

Lexa flinches, opens her mouth to say something, to explain, but Clarke isn’t done.

‘Tell it to those in jail, rotting away, judgement meted out on them without a fair trial. Tell it to my friends whose jobs are continually at stake. We’re all risking everything.’

 _Are you?_ Hangs silently in the air between them.

Clarke sees her lips thin, face setting with that stony determination she’s seen before. Only this time, it’s set against her.

‘You’re driven to fix everything, Clarke, but you can’t just will the world into a different place overnight. Sometimes we must hold back, play by some of their rules, in order to achieve the final goal.’ She pauses, then continues quietly, ‘Our involvement has already led to your imprisonment.’

Clarke begins to tell her it’s not her fault, but Lexa shakes her head.

‘I have thought this through and this is what I must do. Trust me, Clarke.’ The last words are low, almost pleading.

Clarke wants to. But she can’t help thinking that Lexa’s judgement is skewed. She knows that Lexa considers her life forfeit, surrendered to the plan she hatched after the loss of her lover. She’s so convinced of the need for her martyrdom that she will always deny herself first, even if there might be another way.

‘I can’t just watch you sacrifice any chance of the life you could have, condemned to live in fear for some ruse that may not even be the most effective strategy.’ She’s bordering exasperated now.

‘You don’t have to watch,’ Lexa sighs defeatedly.

Clarke feels the words like a knife sliding through her ribs. Lexa is pulling them apart. ‘We’ has become ‘you’. Or maybe it always was

‘Lexa…’

‘I’m sorry, Clarke, I cannot do this now. I’m expected at the House of Commons shortly. If you said what you’ve come to say, I must be going.’ 

Clarke hates the feeling in the air, both tense and yearning. She’s angry at how stubborn Lexa is, but also heartbroken by the weight she insists on bearing. She wants to close the distance between them and press their lips together, tell her she doesn’t have to carry any of this alone, but she also wants to shake her by the shoulders and demand a better reason. On both accounts, doesn’t know if she has the right to anymore. 

_You don’t have to watch._

Gone is the welcoming ease of her presence, the effortless merging of their beings. Vulnerability is replaced by a guarded front. 

Then the moment to do anything is past and Lexa is raising her eyebrow in a gesture of impatience. Clarke huffs in resignation and offers to show herself out. 

\-------

She stomps down the street, muttering to herself, mind racing with all the things she could’ve or should’ve said, as it is wont to do after an argument. As she marches on, the raging torrent ebbs into a stream, then a trickle, until finally she just feels tired and empty and miserable. Also, a little confused by her own reaction. 

Yes, she wants Lexa to stand alongside them, but she can see Lexa’s side too. She knows Lexa isn’t protecting her personal interests and comfort, that she’s just as dedicated as the rest of them. That she may well be right in wanting to wait. Her words made it seem like Lexa was choosing a coward’s path, when in truth, Clarke had seen her risk life and limb for them time and again. Why the anger then?

Then it hits her with a sickening thud: because Lexa isn’t choosing her. She’s choosing a path, a world, where Clarke will never fit, where any semblance of something long-term between them is unfathomable. She’s continuing forward with her plan regardless of Clarke. 

It shouldn’t surprise her. Lexa told her, didn’t she? That she’d given up on her own happiness. That, having lost her shot at the life she wanted, she was determined to do whatever necessary to make things better for other women. 

But that was before; before the kiss, before the nights entwined together, the hours of companionship, before she risked everything to rescue Clarke. But did it ever really change in Lexa’s mind? 

She knows she feels something. She’s seen it in the haunting depths of her looks, the moist tenderness of her eyes, the secret smiles that are just Clarke’s. She’s heard it in her voice, the almost confessions, the murmured nothings as they lay together in the dark; hell simply in the way her lips wrap around her name, making it her own. She’s felt it in every touch, in the very way she holds her body differently when they were together. 

But Lexa is stubborn, determined, committed. Which means that no matter what she feels, how much she might care for her, it doesn’t make a bit of difference to her plans. 

The realization clenches at her gut, makes her feel small, invisible, unworthy. Clarke kicks a stray pebble hard, watches it roll and bounce down the street. 

Well, Lexa might be determined to sacrifice herself on the altar of feminism, but Clarke will be damned is she lets her.

\-------

She arrives to find the square already teeming with suffragists, chanting and waving their banners in time to the beat. The air is electric, shimmering with hopeful expectation, and any thoughts of her altercation with Lexa are pushed out of her mind. 

This could be it. Their first major victory.

She elbows her way to the front, knowing that’s where she’ll find her friends, smiling and singing as she’s jostled by women with fiery, optimistic faces. Raven sees her pushing through and gestures wildly with her sign, draping two ‘votes for women’ ribbons across Clarke’s chest when she gets close enough. 

There is increased police presence keeping a wary eye on the festive rally, but they seem relaxed, not expecting an attempt to interrupt the proceedings today. The women are quieter too, not wishing to detract from the arguments being presented inside. 

Clarke thinks of Lexa in there, poised at the front, commanding the room; words eloquent, measured, passionate. A little shiver of awe runs through her at the thought. She could take over the world given half the chance. Despite herself, she feels a swell of pride at what Lexa’s accomplished, and what it cost her. 

Octavia squeezes her shoulder, bringing her back to the present. She smiles, joining into the chant with gusto.

The hours fly by, and by the time little flurries of activity around the doorway indicate a decision is ready to be announced, the women are practically convinced of their victory, euphoric on their shared camaraderie and picturing their future as full citizens. 

Several men emerge, heads down, ignoring the shouted questions from the throng. Clarke leans forward on the rail, anticipation thudding in her chest. Goddess, she needs to know! 

Then Lucius steps out, handsome in her top hat and fitted suit. She scans the crowds, and Clarke feels a jolt of electricity as their eyes meet. But they’re heavy and Clarke swears she can make out Lexa swallowing, despite the distance. _Oh no!_ She shakes her head ever so slightly, eyes brimming with sadness before Nyko emerges to usher her towards the car. 

Clarke’s heart sinks, plummeting towards the pavement in incredulous disappointment. It’s not just the general blow to their cause, goddess knows there have been enough of those and one more is hardly enough to stop them, but it feels personal. It was Lexa in there, whom she had just urged to change tactics. Would things have been different if she had revealed herself? 

She barely hears the announcement that the bill was rejected, or the ensuing boos and reverberating chants for justice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pretty curious to hear your thoughts on this one.
> 
> Shout-out to @lapizsilkwood for being my beta and calling Lexa my baby without any prompting whatsoever. ;-)


	20. Chapter 20

Clarke stays, joining the others in their clamor for justice. She wants the MPs—in their pretentious hats and tailored suits—whom the injustices of the current system have imbued with the right to decide their fate, to see them, to look into the eyes of those they are robbing.

It’s cathartic, yelling her frustration at those contributing to its cause, but an underlying feeling of futility permeates it all as they watch man after man ignore them and climb into their sleek new cars. A few shrug apologetically, telling them they’ll get it next time. The ones who voted in favor of the bill, no doubt. But the bitter taste of defeat taints every chant and cry, and Clarke is exhausted when they finally begin to disperse. No riots today. Well that’s something at least.

She trudges away, leaving the others a little ways from the pharmacy.

‘We’ll win next time,’ Raven calls in parting, putting on a brave face for all of them. ‘This is the closest we’ve come yet.’

Clarke nods, not having the energy to reply. They would, yes, eventually; months or years or decades from now. But tonight she’s tired and doesn’t want to think about that. 

She stops by the pharmacy to leave her banner and sash, dropping them by the back door and taking her bike. She pedals mindlessly in the fading dusk, trying to ignore the gnawing trepidation at the back of her mind. She knows the chances of Lexa being at Lucius’s are slim, but she has to try. She feels heavy with the way things ended between them; angry and frustrated, but not at Lexa. At the whole damn country, maybe; everyone and everything that makes this so damn hard, that makes Lexa feel trapped with the world on her shoulders, that make Clarke say all the wrong things ‘cause there isn’t one good option. At the faceless _Them_. 

She thinks of Lexa dealing with their defeat alone. She’ll be berating herself, feeling like it happened because she wasn’t enough, Clarke’s words from earlier ringing in her ears. But dammit, it’s not on her. She doesn’t deserve that. Goddess, if anyone tries their darndest it’s Lexa. She just needs to tell her that before the day is out. 

The ghostly fear at the back of her mind materializes when she finds the house dark and quiet. 

But maybe…

She parks her bike and lifts the stone slab for the spare key, finding it just where Lexa indicated. The door creaks irreverently in the silence. Clarke slips through and closes it, moving quietly upstairs; the parlor, the study, the room, all empty. She keeps walking—the bathroom, the guestroom—as long as there’s somewhere else to look her absence is not absolutely final.

At last she is done, the cellar bringing no surprises, just the hollow finality of certainty. She returns to her room, _their room_. Maybe. Once. Still? She sinks into the bed, trying to think. She wants to go to the Woolcott house, but after Nia’s visit today she knows she shouldn’t go anywhere near it. 

No, the best thing she can do for Lexa is wait, be strong until she contacts her. That’s what this is, right? A battle of wills. If they have the obstinacy to wait it out until their adversaries tire and give up, they’ll win. Resolution takes root in her chest; she won’t be broken.

But she doesn’t have the strength to do anything else today. She slips off her shoes and climbs into bed; Lexa’s side, Lexa’s pillow. She burrows in her smell and remembers all the reasons the wait is worth it. 

\-------

Bellamy’s getting a bit antsy. He spends the following evening pontificating on the uselessness of parliament with their endless sessions, and how they need to find a way to wrest the power from them and make their own laws. Clarke bristles. It sounds an awful lot like a jab at Lucius’s failure. Octavia gives her a meaningful look, but mercifully remains quiet. Clarke grows moody and irritable. It’s not like it’s Lexa’s fucking fault the rest of the MPs are idiots, she wants to scream. They have no idea how much she poured into this. 

But she’s tired and doesn’t feel much like engaging with them now. In any case, there’s little strategizing to be done. Their suffragist activities are naturally put on hold for a few days, with everyone needing a little time to regroup and tend to things they’d been neglecting in the build-up.

Clarke resumes her duties at the pharmacy, trying to keep her mind off Lexa. She hasn’t called or come by, and this morning she found out from Lincoln that she’s no longer in London, had apparently been called back to her estate immediately after the House meeting. Despite her efforts, he remained tight-lipped about why, and she can only imagine the dressing down Lexa gave him after the incident with Octavia. 

She understands Lexa’s need for caution, for space. But the silence still stings, especially since she doesn’t know if Lexa is staying away due to circumstances or because of their fight. Clarke realizes she knows almost nothing of Lexa’s life outside her illicit activities, tries not to let her mind spin in dizzying circles worrying about Nia or her husband and the myriad of things that could have gone wrong. Instead, she channels her nervous energy into her new mission: trying to get the rest of the suffragists out of jail. 

She’s grossly underwhelmed by her first meeting with their lawyer. John Murphy, solicitor at law, occupies a cluttered, dusty office which matches his disheveled appearance. His long hair falls messily into his handsome, unkempt face and Clarke can’t help the impression that it’s slothfulness, rather than his never-ending case load, that is responsible for this state of affairs. Still, his eyes are keen, clever even, and calculating as they size Clarke up. She has a feeling he might just be capable of helping; that is, if he can be bothered to do so.

‘I’ve told you, Miss Griffin,’ he drawls after her account of the women’s situation, ‘I’ve already petitioned the court to set trial dates. There’s nothing to be done but wait. London is teeming with petty criminals and the magistrates are hardly in any hurry to miss their social gatherings just to get them back on the streets. They’ll be seen eventually.’

‘Eventually? Haven’t you been listening to the conditions these women are in? Starving, force-fed, denied their basic rights to cleanliness and medical care. Court dates or not, there has to be something you can do to improve their situation. Have you even been to see them?’

‘Miss Griffin…’

‘Clarke,’ she cuts him off, tone clipped at the lethargy in his voice.

‘Clarke,’ he smiles patronizingly, ‘do you have any idea how many cases I get assigned? I’ve been doing this for years. Much as I would like to help them, I can’t fix the system, only understand it and do my job within its limitations. There’s no point banging your head against a brick wall. We do the best we can.’

‘You got me out pretty quick.’

He scoffs. 

‘You kidding me? Once Lady Woolcott paid the warden a little visit your case was open and shut. The others aren’t that lucky.’

‘Well let’s use that,’ Clarke says, brain lighting on an idea. ‘Let’s go back there, tell them we’re investigating their treatment of the women for their upcoming cases. Le- Lady Woolcott has already glimpsed the conditions so they’ll be crapping themselves over that. They don’t have to know she’s no longer working with us. A mere hint at the possibility of her involvement should give us some leverage.’

He’s quiet, but his eyes have grown thoughtful and his slouch is a little less pronounced. 

‘Are you free to accompany me this afternoon?’

‘I’ll be here at 5.’

\-------

After the visit to the prison, the young lawyer seems to work with an energy all his own, though Clarke suspects it’s less a result of the women’s deplorable situation and more due to meeting Emori. Clarke doesn’t exactly know what she saw in him, but there did seem to be something there. She even cracked a grin at some ghastly joke he made about the guard. After their meeting he’s grown active, almost industrious, researching precedents, feeding the press exclusives on the shocking conditions, calling people of standing who may be interested in helping to move the process along. It’s still slow going, but it’s beginning to get somewhere. 

Then it happens. June 28, 1914. 

It’s early evening and Clarke is putting the finishing touches on her post-suture bandage, a nasty gash courtesy of a factory accident, when Raven bursts through the door. 

‘Shit, Griff, have you heard the news?’

‘The one about patient privacy rights?’ she replies a little pointedly.

Raven appears to see the man for the first time.

‘Apologies, sir, but you may well want to hear this too.’

He waves his hand dismissively, as if the Duchess of Buckingham could walk in and witness his treatment and he wouldn’t bat an eye.

‘It’s all over the streets. The Archduke of Austria and his wife were assassinated in Serbia today.’

‘That’s awful,’ Clarke replies.

‘It’s more than awful! You know things have been unsettled since the Balkan Wars. Peace over there is flimsy and superficial at best.’

Clarke tries to recall the details. Sure, she’s heard about the conflicts over the past years, but it all seemed so distant when she had very real battles to fight right here in London.

‘This could be the spark that sets them off.’

Little does Raven know just how prophetic her words will be. The Austrians appear unruffled at first, going about their parties and operas as if their crown prince hasn’t just been murdered. But despite their disputes over his son’s choice of wife, the Emperor is not one to forgive easily. 

It starts subtly. Anti-Serb riots in Sarajevo, with tenuous connections to Austro-Hungarian authorities. Then the not-so-subtle mass imprisonment and execution of Serbs in other Austro-Hungarian territories. The atmosphere becomes tense as the major European powers scramble into a frenzy of political maneuvers, to defuse the situation, all the while hurriedly reoiling their war machines ‘as a precaution’. 

There’s a palpable change in London. Internal political conflicts are put on hold as the country holds its breath, awaiting resolution of the external ones. The risk of impending war unites opposing parties and differences are temporarily set aside under the shared banner of patriotism. 

While little progress is made on the women’s suffrage front, Clarke and Murphy find the authorities far less keen on keeping Englishwomen locked up on petty charges, and things begin to move quickly in that regard. By mid-July half of the women imprisoned for suffragist activities have been released, with the others serving small sentences for greater misdemeanors. It’s a happy day when Clarke and Emori are reunited in Murphy’s office. 

‘You did good, Griffin,’ Emori says, gripping her in a hug. 

Clarke fills a swell in her chest, a lump rising through her throat at the contact. 

_Dammit!_

She isn’t an emotional person, but so much has been shoved down, day after weary day of no news from Lexa, that even a small display of human affection makes her emotional dam wobble. 

_Get it together, Griffin._

She pulls back, smile forced onto her face and faux cheer in her voice. But it isn’t too hard with Emori standing in front of her, finally freed. She really is happy they’ve succeeded here. 

‘So, where will you go now? I can put you up for a while if you need it.’

A curious look passes between Emori and Murphy which isn’t lost on Clarke.

‘There’s no need. John’s offered me a room for a few days so I can get the filth of Her Majesty’s Prison Service off me. Then I’m heading back to my unit. I hear they’re making preparations to help in the war effort, if it comes to that. All hands on deck.’

Clarke’s ears prick up at this. It would be something to do, something to get her out of the interminable anguish of waiting. Emori seems to see it in her eyes. 

‘You should come,’ she says earnestly. ‘Their main focus is on training medical staff. Someone like you who already has medical training would be a godsend.’

Clarke’s heart beats a little faster. Medicine, women’s empowerment, and patriotism; an alluring package to be sure. 

‘I’ll think about it.’

Emori nods.

\-------

There isn’t much to think about, not when Austria-Hungry issued an ultimatum of demands so extreme it’s practically a declaration of war itself. Russia and Germany are lining up on opposite sides and it seems only a matter of time before Britain follows. 

‘I’m going,’ she says quietly.

She and Davies are alone in the back room, tidying up after a dizzying day of consults. 

He nods. ‘I thought you would. When do you leave?’

‘Two days,’ she replies. ‘I know that isn’t much time to find someone else…’

‘I’ll make do,’ he replies kindly. ‘It’s time for all of as to make do.’

She nods.

‘Your father would be proud.’

Her throat closes up, too tight for words.

‘Every day I look at you and think of how proud he would be.’

He sees her. Doesn’t expect an answer. Just squeezes her shoulder gently.

‘You’ll write?’

She nods again, more emphatically, trying to communicate how much this tether to something familiar, something known and caring, parental, means to her.

He nods back and they finish their duties in silence.

\-------

Clarke’s anxious, frustrated as she tosses her meager belongings into a suitcase. She’d been to Lucius’s again, nothing. Lincoln is gone of course. As a training officer in the British Armed Forces he was whisked away in early July to train the influx of men who had rushed to volunteer. So her one tenuous link to Lexa is gone. She could go to the Woolcott house, of course, but it seems needlessly risky. If Lexa was in town and wanted to see her she knew where to find her, which means she either isn’t in town or doesn’t want any contact.

She’s run the whole gamut of feelings over the last few weeks. Anger, abandonment, guilt, worry, longing, confusion. Most of all she feels powerless. Lexa might want or need her and there’s nothing she can do. Lexa might be done with her, and she has no way of finding out. So she’s stuck in this infuriating limbo and its taking its toll on her nerves. 

When she finally finishes packing, she lies in her bed to watch the hours go by. She doesn’t really hope for sleep, that hope died weeks ago. The best she can hope for is a kind of listlessness that makes the hours pass more quickly. 

Somewhere between 3 and 4 am she hits on an idea. She stumbles down the stairs in the dark and makes for the reception desk, stealthily avoiding the rusty cabinet edges in her bare feet, only to knock over a vial in her search for the lamp. Luckily it’s empty and there’s no one here to be disturbed by the noise. Mr. Davies having been called out to a house on the outskirts of the city hours before. She rummages around in the drawers before finding a notepad and pen. 

Then she stills, pen in hand, poised over the paper. Its blankness stares back at her; taunting, beckoning. Still, she remains motionless. She feels calm in the darkness, like a great stone dam is holding back the tempestuous flood inside. It’s quiet on this side, almost eerily so, like she’s outside her body, viewing her churning emotions from a distance. It’s not that there’s nothing to say, it’s that there is a giant gap between her feelings and anything remotely resembling words. 

At last, she starts with something obvious.

 

_I don’t know when you will get this, but ‘when’ still sounds better than ‘if’. I imagine you’ve already learned where I’ve gone and what I am doing; that is not why I’m writing._

_I’m writing to say I’m not leaving because of you, but rather despite the burning impulse to remain, to stay anywhere where you might reach me in a moment. I’m going for I feel it my duty to go. If men are rushing to defend our country and we wish to be equal to men, I cannot in good faith stand aside when my services could be of use on the battlefield. I know I don’t need to explain this to you; you know it instinctively._

_I’m also writing to say I’m sorry. I said things when I last saw you, I don’t remember exactly what, only that they were unfair. If anyone knows how much you give, it is I. This isn’t on you. You did your best, and your best brought us closer to the goal. That is all we can hope for. If you got even one of those men to change their minds, it is a victory._

_The truth is, I was scared. It’s not easy to watch you inhabit a world that can never be mine, occasionally coming out to dazzle me, before retreating where I cannot follow. I was not expecting to be dazzled, may not even have believed it possible. It’s not easy, but I’ll be strong. You’ve taught me a great deal about what one can bear._

_In short, I try and I work and I fight, but never without you on my mind. At times I feel like a fragment, like you have taken a part of me with you and I remain a mere shadow of what I once was. At others, I think I am better, stronger, for wanting to make you proud._

_I cannot bring myself to write, ‘good-bye’ so I’ll say, ‘until we meet again’._

_I hope you will find a way to write to me._

 

She doesn’t address the letter or sign it. No proof of origin or destination. She places it carefully in an envelope and scribbles a note to Mr. Davies, asking him to give the letter to Lucius or his cousin if either comes to inquire about her whereabouts. When she’s finished, she feels calm for the first time in weeks, like the act of reaching out to touch Lexa has somehow soothed her own soul.

\-------

Clarke shifts on the sidewalk, waiting for the bus that will take her to the training facilities. It seems oddly nostalgic, like closing a chapter. She feels like she’ll never again be the person she is standing outside the pharmacy today. 

She sees Raven and Bellamy coming towards her.

‘Hey,’ Raven says, pulling her into a hug, ‘I thought we might be too late.’ 

Clarke grips her hard, feeling the surge of emotions well up to just beneath the surface. She bites back the tears. 

‘Don’t you dare scare me, ok?’ Raven warns, pulling back to bore into her eyes. ‘None of that heroics shit you read about.’

Clarke nods, though the skeptical look on Raven’s face shows she doesn’t believe her one bit.

‘And write, ok? Don’t make me track you down to some godforsaken war zone to kick your ass.’ 

Clarke nods. She will. She’s the only person she really feels like writing to. Besides Lexa. 

Raven’s factory has become one of the lead weapon manufacturers and her boss, driven by desperate times to put efficiency before prejudice, has made her foreman, (forewoman? Raven thinks so as has taken to making everyone call her that). She’s got her hands full helping the pre-war effort from right here. 

‘Hey,’ Bellamy says, pulling her in for a hug. 

She hugs him back, hard. Despite their differences, they’re still a kind of family.

‘Off to enlist?’

‘Yep. I’m going to Lincoln’s training center. Though O made him promise to bust my balls before he left, so not sure how well that will turn out.’

Clarke smirks a little at the thought of Bellamy getting pummeled under the guise of combat training.

‘Be safe,’ she tells him.

‘You too.’

Just then, she spots the bus rounding the bend.

‘Where is O? I swear to god, if she doesn’t show up to see me off I will make a special trip home to kill her myself.’

‘She’s not seeing you off.’ 

Octavia’s voice makes her spin around. She’s hurrying down the street, lugging a bag at least two-thirds her size.

‘She’s coming with you.’

‘With me?’ Clarke asks, confused. ‘But O, you don’t know the first thing about medicine.’

‘I read the ad, all women are welcome. There’re ambulances to be driven and all kinds of other work to be done. We’ve taken on every challenge together since 2-year-old Thomas tried to bite you and I pulled out the one ratty clump of hair he had. You’re mental if you think I’m letting you potentially go off to actual war without me.’

Clarke felt the smile spread across her face. It would be good to have someone with her.

The bus slowed at the curb and Raven pulled her into one last hug. 

‘I mean it, Griffin. No fucking stunts.’

She nods, grabs her bag.

‘Oh shit, I left the lamps on at the pharmacy. I have no idea when Davies…’

‘I’ll switch ‘em off,’ Bellamy replies, waving them into the bus. ‘I know where he keeps the spare key. See you on the other side.’

They clamber aboard, cautiously hauling their bags down the aisle to avoid hitting any of the other passengers. When they’re finally settled, Clarke looks back to see her street disappear, and with it every vestige of the life she’s known so far.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh My Gay. War?! Wasn't there enough drama already?  
> Just following history, me hearties. 
> 
> Also, I kind of hate Lexaless chapters, but needs must.
> 
> Hope you enjoyed it.


	21. Chapter 21

Clarke is decidedly nervous as she makes her way into the large living room which has been stripped of its usual furniture to accommodate neat rows of chairs. She watches as the other women, ages ranging from about twenty-five to early forties, chat pleasantly as they choose their seats. They all appear to know each other to varying degrees, while she and Octavia are undoubtedly the outsiders, drawing more than a few curious glances. 

Truth be told, she’s been nervous ever since they arrived, a fact she hopes she’s hidden well. It was a shock when they’d pulled up to find that their temporary training facilities weren’t a patchwork of tents and outhouses in some godforsaken corner of the country, but rather a posh London estate lent to them by a patron who was herself fighting for women’s rights. Clarke felt a pang of nostalgia as she looked up at the wide windows and high ceilings. It was all painfully reminiscent of Lexa’s world, perhaps too much so. She tried to shake it off and follow the other women up to the rooms which had also been refurnished to house more guests in smaller quarters. Four to five women were assigned per room. They were only given fifteen minutes to settle in before being called to convene in the meeting room, as it has now been dubbed. 

From snippets of conversation here and there, she’s gathered that the majority of the women are all certified doctors, graduates from the London School of Medicine for Women. Clarke feels both envy and awe as she looks around the room, wondering what it must feel like to be an actual doctor. She can’t help feeling a bit inadequate sitting among them, like it was only Emori’s recommendation that got her in. She’s grateful for the familiarity of Octavia’s presence beside her. 

A hush falls over the room as a woman takes her place at the front. Clarke’s mind begins clicking, trying to figure out who she is, how important she must be to bring the room to immediate silence. But as the woman stands there, steely eyes assessing them, she feels that this is the kind of woman who could command a room without any official rank or status. She stands stiff, more warrior than doctor, hands clasped firmly behind her back, offsetting her sinewy frame. She’s wearing pants and a grey shirt, hair cropped short, an inch or so above a dark face that seems to wordlessly measure each woman before her, weighing up their potential and flaws.

‘I am Indra,’ she begins. Just Indra. No last name. No title. ‘You are all here because you’re doctors,’ (Well, that confirms Clarke’s thoughts on the others) ‘healers, ready to train so you can go out and mend what men break. But I’m here to teach you to fight, to hurt if need be, in order to protect yourselves.’

A murmur ripples through the crowd. For once the other women seem more disconcerted than Clarke. There is an almost smirk on Octavia’s lips.

‘It may seem counterintuitive to you. I’ve even heard some say it’s best to leave fighting to the men.’ Her eyes narrow in distaste at the notion. ‘But this whole movement is about leaving very little to the men. You will not be trained in combat as extensively as they will, but I’ll be damned if I send any one of you out into the field without the means to protect yourself.’

The girls are then instructed to change into clothes that allow movement and reconvene on the lawn in ten minutes. It’s overcast, but not raining, which the women comment on appreciatively. 

That is, until Indra begins putting them through their exercises and before long they’re so drenched in sweat a little rain would be welcome. She begins with a series of warm-up exercises, which quite frankly are probably more physical activity than most women see in a week. Then moves on to basic maneuvers, pairing them up to practice. There are a few complaints initially, on how they didn’t spend years in medical school for this, but they’re quickly shut down by Indra’s hissed comments on what they can expect on the front.

‘You are weak.’ It’s a statement of fact, not an insult. ‘If I push or hit you will fall. You must harden yourselves.’

She is merciless. But her firmness and inflexibility to the women’s groans is in itself a kind of caring. She’s determined to make them strong even if she has to drag them into strength.

After two hours, most women have collapsed in the grass, all semblance of poise abandoned as they wheeze and pound at aching muscles. Clarke joins the others, feeling heavy, but oddly empowered at what she’s made her body do. 

Only Octavia is standing, going over the block, twist, uppercut combination with Indra over and over, trying to perfect it. Her fire seems to awaken Indra’s innate competitiveness and she begins to push, moving faster, stronger, landing Octavia on her back every time she is too slow. The final time her block goes up too slow and she gets a mean right hook to the jaw. The women gasp collectively as she stumbles back, rubs at the spot, and spits blood. Indra eyes her unflinchingly. 

‘You were too slow,’ she says matter-of-factly.

‘I won’t be next time.’

‘Let’s see it.’

Indra is fast, faster than all the other times, but the rage of pain seems to have given Octavia a boost. She parries, twists, and jabs, and it’s all Indra can do to bring her hand down to block the counterblow.

‘Good,’ she says, with something that could almost be approval if given years to mature.

She turns to the rest of the women.

‘I expect you here every morning at 6:30 sharp. We will train for two hours before you go on to breakfast and your medical instructions. And remember, they aren’t expecting you to know how to fight. And that’s their biggest weakness.’

\-------

Clarke groans as the jarring ring of the alarm clock goes off at 6. It’s not just that her limbs feel like throbbing sacks of flesh. Octavia decided that sleep had become unnecessary the moment she set eyes on her new mentor (God? Clarke seems to remember a deity reference, though her brain had kind of gone to mush by 1 am.) and had insisted on a stage-whisper monologue extoling her feats, that is now earning them some very pointed glares from the women they share the room with. She rifles through her belongings, deciding to wear the same dress as yesterday so she’ll have something to change into after the morning exercises. 

If exercise is even the right word for them. It feels like the worst mix between mortal combat and willful torture, and Clarke is all too happy to stagger back inside and change for breakfast. Octavia can worship Indra all she likes, but if she suddenly comes down with a crippling case of the flu and none of the dozens of doctors here are capable of treating her, well, Clarke wouldn’t be sorry.

But her turn for professional infatuation comes just after breakfast, when they’re directed back into the living room and settle into their seats between groans and popping joints. Clarke is mid-eyeroll at the way Octavia is flexing her forearms and asking if she thinks she’s gained muscle since yesterday, when the room quietens around her. It’s not the same awed silence as yesterday, but deferent and respectful nonetheless. She looks up to find a face that triggers the familiarity center of her brain, though she can’t quite place it.

Clarke watches as she surveys the women, gaze less judgmental than Indra’s but assessing them nonetheless. She seems to be in her early-forties, hair pulled back in a sensible bun, eyes keen and intelligent, somehow simultaneously hard and kind, like she won’t tolerate laxity in any form, but you wouldn’t be afraid to ask her a stupid question. 

‘I am Dr. Garett Anderson, as you well know.’

Garett Anderson? As in Elizabeth Garett Anderson, founder of the London Hospital for Women. That must be why Clarke recognized her. But she’s too young. A daughter?

‘You are all already trained doctors with varying experience.’ Her voice is calm, confident, the kind of voice you could trust. 

But Clarke doesn’t miss the way her eyes linger on her and Octavia as she says this, as if to say, Yes, I know you’re the exception. She shrinks a little in her seat. 

‘I’m not here to teach you how to practice medicine, but while we may have seen countless patients, they were women and children, and male surgical is a foreign field. What is more, the kind of wounds we will encounter at the front are hardly comparable to what we have seen so far, which is why we will use the next few weeks to study procedures for dealing with trauma. Dr. Flora Murray and I will be your instructors and it is our hope that by the end of this time you will all be ready in the event that we do go to war.’

A hand goes up somewhere to Clarke’s right.

‘Dr. Walker?’

‘Have we any more news?’

‘Britain has not yet declared war. But you wouldn’t know it from walking the streets of London.’

There’s an ominousness in her tone that makes their training seem anything but precautionary.

‘Now, you will find a folder in front of you containing some common battlefield wounds and how they should be treated…’

There’s a tug on Octavia’s arm and Clarke looks up to see the driver from yesterday.

‘If you’ll come with me, Miss. I’m meant to show you the ins and outs of driving and vehicle care.’

Octavia’s eyes glow with relief as if the man had just offered to save her from slow, excruciating torture. She grins at Clarke and follows him out while Clarke returns her attention to bullet wounds. 

\-------

Clarke is relieved to find that she doesn’t come up quite as short as she thought she would in a room full of certified doctors. She’s more than a little pleased to be the only one with experience treating men, indeed her patients at the pharmacy were mostly men, who preferred coming to them for cheaper treatment. She’s also seen her fair share of factory accidents, which might just give her a slight edge over the others when it comes to trauma. 

There’s one moment in particular that leaves her flushed with pride. They are in an adjacent room after the lecture, which has been transformed into a kind of triage setting with dummies set atop tables and gurneys each with a list of injuries and symptoms. They come to one, gunshot wound to the chest, over which Dr. Garett Anderson pauses and asks the women what their first concern should be. The doctors begin rattling off worries about blood loss, punctured or heart, to which Dr. Anderson replies that the patient would most likely be dead before he reaches them. They begin to get more creative, spine damage, broken ribs, but Clarke remains silent, trying to grasp the thought nagging at the back of her mind.

‘Air,’ she says suddenly, voice barely above a whisper as realization fills her eyes.

Dr. Anderson’s eyes zero in on her immediately, ignoring the continued chatter of the other doctors hypothesizing. 

‘What was that, Miss Griffin?’

Clarke blushes slightly, both at the knowledge that this legend of feminism and medicine knows her by name, and at the use of ‘Miss’, which will leave no doubt in the other women’s minds as to her qualifications.

‘I said air.’

‘Please expound.’

‘I saw a similar wound a few months ago, a man who’d been in a factory accident and had a puncture wound to the chest.’

The women seem to shift at this, suspicion at her lack of training transforming into a kind of curiosity.

‘Air was filling his chest cavity, putting pressure on the respiratory system and threatening to collapse a lung. The first step was to cover the wound, a bandage that could let air out but not in. It stopped it from worsening, but there was already air in his chest and his breathing was labored with increased tachycardia. So next we needed to get the air that was trapped inside out.’

She could be kidding herself, but she could swear she almost sees a hint of pride in the senior doctor’s eyes.

‘A sucking chest wound. Well seen. And how do you propose we go about that?’

Clarke hesitates only a moment before replying, not daring to look around at the other women’s reactions.

‘A needle.’ She’s rather proud at the steadiness of her voice when her heart is pounding fiercely against her ribcage. ‘A big one, here,’ she continues, placing her fingers in the space between the second and third rib. ‘You can use a needle to suck the air out, alleviate pressure and facilitate breathing.’

There is a moment of silence after her words, in which Clarke feels the eyes shift from her to their teacher. Has she just confirmed their assumptions of her incompetence?

‘That is an excellent suggestion, Miss Griffin. In fact the very same one I would’ve made. I knew we took you on with good reason.’

And then she’s off, continuing her instruction on the next steps of the treatment. But Clarke feels the glow of pride settle into her chest at the recognition. She holds herself a little higher from then on, she’s here on her own merits. 

\-------

The days continue in similar fashion, and while Clarke can’t bring herself to share Octavia’s enthusiasm for their early morning combat training, she does take some comfort in the knowledge that she is slightly stronger and faster than before. Her real passion are the hours of medical training that follow. Unsurprising, considering her role models.

Both Dr. Anderson and Dr. Murray are patient and rigorous, pushing the women to the limits of their knowledge and creativity. She likes the more fiery approach of the slightly older Dr. Murray wrapped in her still-prominent Scottish accent as she paints vivid scenarios of what they might face. She likes Dr. Andersons calm pragmatism as she emphasizes time and again the importance of keeping a level head. She likes how neither woman accept less than the best, but are equally generous in their praise when the women get it right. She likes the way they complement each other in the rare times they are teaching together, how they seem to communicate almost without words, anticipating the other’s thoughts and forming a seamless team. A testament to their years working together, no doubt. She’s slightly in awe that they opened their own hospital for children run solely by women, that their achievements didn’t make them shirk from jumping head-on into the suffrage movement. They are legends, both as doctors and women who refused to take the worlds limitations as anything other than a nasty suggestion. 

Clarke feels empowered in a setting where women are respected and valued, depended on and recognized for their worth. She feels her hope in their cause renewed. 

She learns quickly, picking up terms and procedures that have already been drilled into the other women, learning how to use new instruments and equipment. In turn, she brings a fresh perspective to the work, coming up with creative and unorthodox solutions fueled by years of making do with what they had. A mutual respect develops between her and the others, with them offering to help fill in any gaps in her knowledge, and her showing them some of her scrappy solutions.

Her days are so full she barely has time to think of anything other than dodging and disarming her partner or patching up a hypothetical soldier. But at night, as she lies listening to the even breathing and snores of the other women, she feels Lexa more strongly than ever. Her absence has become as strong as a presence now, large and achy, filling the space in and around Clarke’s bed, sucking out the air. Sometimes it’s almost soft, a yearning almost as delicious as the thing it craves. Sometimes it’s anxious, filled with worries about her well-being, about the uncertainty of her feelings towards Clarke. Sometimes it’s angry, the least she could do is write. Who just up and disappears without a word to the person they had been seeing faithfully for…a few weeks? Only a few weeks? Surely at least a month, a year, a lifetime. These things follow a time of their own. But mostly it’s sad, the crippling pang of loss coupled with a stubborn refusal to consider it as really gone.

She’s taken to unwrapping her picture. Not always, not every night, she can’t risk it fading too soon, just when her absence presses down on her like one of those sucking chest wounds; just air, but air that stretches and crushes until she can hardly breathe. She can’t see it as clearly in the faint light of the night lamp, but all it takes is a glimpse for Lexa’s image to spring to mind, rich and colorful, engaging all her sensory memories, sight, sound, smell, touch. She squeezes her eyes shut against the taste of her lips, the little moans and surprised gasps as if, after hundreds of kisses, she still didn’t expect Clarke to feel this way. 

Other memories too. The firm set of her jaw in stubborn opposition. Her regal carriage; poised, cold. The hurt swimming with her eyes as she pleaded with Clarke to understand something she wouldn’t quite deign to explain. The droop of acceptance in her shoulders when Clarke stood unrelenting.

The memories shudder through her body, painfully exhilarating in their intensity. She wouldn’t give them up for all the world.

She can never quite tell if she actually falls asleep.

Octavia does her best to distract her. When her initial offers to talk about Lexa are hastily rebutted, she switches to speaking animatedly of the things she’s learned about driving horses, carriage wheels, and maneuvering over rough terrain. She’s moving on to cars next week and can’t shut up about it. She asks Clarke about her own work and makes all the right faces and sounds as Clarke recounts the grisly details of their fake patients. 

It helps somewhat and Clarke is grateful for her friend. But when she perks up at mail call twice a day, hoping for or sending a letter to Lincoln, Clarke hates her just a little. She listens eagerly anyway, hoping that Lincoln might let slide a crumb of information about Lexa. There’s never anything. She’s trying to be patient, she really is, but with each letter her resentment grows just a little more.

\-------

The news comes nine days into their training. They are sitting in the meeting room discussing the treatment of amputated limbs when Octavia rushes in, face ashen. Dr. Anderson stops speaking mid-sentence and all eyes turn to her. It takes her a minute to get the words out.

‘King George has declared war on Germany. We’re at war.’

The words sound strange in her mouth, detached, more question than statement. 

Silence falls over the room. It shouldn’t come as a shock. They’ve been preparing for days, discussing gruesome situations with the nonchalance typical to hypotheticals. The UK’s entry into the war was generally viewed as inevitable. Still, there’s something disquieting about it actually happening, the difference between discussing darkness from a theoretical standpoint, and feeling it descend on you like an oppressive blanket. 

They’re at war.

After what seems like hours, Dr. Anderson speaks. ‘Doctors, we’ve been preparing for this and now have the privilege of standing ready when our country needs us. Now please, pair up and go through today’s scenarios. I need to meet with Dr. Murray to discuss our strategy.’

The women dutifully do as they’re told, but their attempts at saving paper soldiers are half-hearted, minds twitching anxiously, discussions turning to whispers of what this means, where and how soon they will be deployed. 

As it turns out, their country is less than thrilled at the news of their preparation to go to war. From snippets of conversation, Clarke hears that the National Union of Suffrage Societies has promised to cease all activity during the war and are negotiating for the release of all suffragettes currently held in prison. With the financial support of Janie Allen, Garett Anderson and Murray submit a request to the War Office to be allowed to set up a hospital near the front. 

There’s a nervous thrill in the air as they wait for a reply. The women perk up whenever Anderson or Murray enter the room, hoping for the news they’ve been waiting for. Their uniforms have been designed and are currently being made. They’re practical, pants and a white turtleneck, with a warm jacket bearing not only the arm band identifying them as medics, but a small suffrage badge as well. Clarke can’t help thinking that their morning combat training will be all the easier when attempted in pants.

She’s working harder now, the reality of potentially meeting hostile soldiers in the near future spurs her on. Indra seems pleased with her efforts, though her utmost sign of approval seems to be a curt nod which she mainly reserves for Octavia. Octavia has become her protegee of sorts, called upon to demonstrate the more advanced moves with her. She’s also taken to practicing at other times, running and jumping and going through the moves over and over whenever she’s free. Clarke feels a lump in her throat when she thinks back on Octavia’s enthusiastic reaction to Lucius’s fighting skills, wondering if he’d teach her. 

She’s been thinking of her more, now that war has been declared, of her penchant for martyrdom. What will she do? What can she do, given the web of identities and lives she’s worked so hard to preserve? Will she face the war as Lucius? Lady Woolcott? Lexa? If there’s one thing Clarke knows for sure, it’s that Lexa is not one to remain on the sidelines, not when her skills and abilities could save lives. The uncertainty gnaws at her, turns her stomach in knots.

\-------

They’re enjoying the 30-minute respite lunch offers when Dr. Murray enters, a look of consternation on her face despite her obvious efforts at stoicism. 

‘What is it, Flora?’

Despite the measured calm in the question, Clarke is a little taken aback at the use of her Christian name. They always refer to each other by their surnames and titles, which she sees as a way of respecting the positions they’ve fought so to achieve. 

Not that it sounds disrespectful now, only familiar, like something in the Scot’s face prompted Dr. Anderson to address her more personally. 

‘It’s as we feared,’ she replies quietly. ‘They won’t send us. They’ve made up some cock and bull excuse, but we all know it’s due to the damning nature of our genitalia.’

Clarke sees Anderson’s eyes light up with fury. She knows it all too well. It’s the fiery rage she’s known her whole life, flaring up every time she’s been told she can’t do something because of her gender. She feels the room sag. No matter how many times they’ve been barred and blocked and oppressed before, it still feels like a fresh blow each time. The problem is hope. Every time you hope you can be crushed anew. 

‘Bloody bastards!’

Clarke looks up quickly, thinking it’s the first time she’s heard the Scot curse.

‘We’ll find a way,’ Anderson replies, crossing to place a bracing hand on Murray’s shoulder. ‘We always do.’

That sends Clarke’s mind spinning, chewing on an idea.

‘But we won’t be in England,’ she says, voice tinted with the wonder of discovery.

‘What’s that, Miss Griffin?’

‘We won’t be serving in England, but in France. Maybe they’ll give us permission. I hardly think they’ll care who is providing medical services once the wounded are piling up on their doorsteps.’

Murray’s eyes go wide with excitement. 

‘That just might be brilliant, Miss Griffin!’ she exclaims. Then to Anderson, ‘Louisa, you speak French.’

‘I’m already drafting an appeal in my head,’ she replies, a hint of a smile on her lips as she turns toward the door. ‘This could work.’

She gives Murray’s arm a final squeeze, smiles at Clarke before she's rushing off to write the letter. Clarke feels that flush of pride again.

\------

When the affirmative reply returns from France, offering them the newly built Claridge Hotel in Paris as an outpost, Clarke has more than proven herself the other doctors on the team. They are a smaller group now, several of the women dropping away throughout the weeks to find other ways of helping the war effort. Those that remain look hardened and battle-ready as they load up medical supplies and gurneys in their smart new uniforms.

September 15, 1914. A date to remember. Clarke writes it neatly at the top of her letter to Raven. 

_It’s a strange thing to be going off to war, off to a country where we don’t speak the language, but will instead be bound by our shared burden of suffering. I try not to think too much, about what might be waiting for me. Thinking always messes it up a bit, doesn’t it? You never do know what you’ll face or if you’ll have what it takes until you’re actually there._

_I don’t know if I envy you staying behind, only that I am incredibly proud. Proud that a group of women are trained as doctors and ready to, in a small way, assuage some of men’s destruction. Proud of myself for holding my own among them. I’m proud of O, who’s become insufferable now that she knows she can beat a man twice her size. I’m proud of you, using your beautiful brain to help our country._

_If there’s one thing that will become painfully clear after all this mess, it’s that women are invaluable assets. And I vow to use my newfound surgical skills to forcefully help any man with his head so far up his ass he can’t see it. It’s my solemn duty as medic, after all. Heads have no place in excrement canals._

_Write often. I’m sure I will miss home._

_Clarke_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd always planned to have Clarke be a medic during the war, but in doing research for the details I discovered Dr. Louisa Garett Anderson and Dr. Flora Murray who were so awesome I just had to include them.
> 
> Both women were trained doctors and had opened a pediatrics hospital in London before the war. They were also really involved in the suffrage movement, Anderson went to prison for a short time and both ran a nursing home that treated women when they came out of prison after their hunger strikes and force-feeding. They were active in rallies and marches, although Garett Anderson disagreed with the WSPU's more violent tactics and broke off with them because of it.
> 
> They were the first women doctors to join the war, setting up their hospital in Paris, again run solely by women. What is more, neither married, they were lifelong companions, and they now share a fucking tombstone in Holy Trinity Churchyard which reads, 'We have been gloriously happy.' Now if that's not the epitome of gay goals, I don't know what is.
> 
> I was fangirling so hard over them, I decided they would be the perfect mentors for Clarke, especially in Lexa's absence.
> 
> Alright, nerd rant over. Hope you liked it.
> 
> Also, you can bet your assess that Clarke is a pro at treating gunshot wounds.


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So perhaps I should just abandon the charade and say updates will be Saturday/Sunday from now on, depending on the will of the goddesses. 
> 
> I wrote a big chunk of this in the wee hours after wildly mocking Eurovision with my friend, so if it's a bit rougher, that's something of an excuse I guess.

_Ever love….ever the sobbing liquid of life._  
~ Walt Whitman

\-------

France is beautiful. At least, that’s what Clarke’s heard; what people love to repeat when they rave about their dream trip or, if they’re lucky, reminisce on an extravagant honeymoon. But after a year in the capital she wouldn’t know. And it’s the last place she’d ever want to meet Lexa in, because that could mean…No, she can’t think of it.

Her Paris is the Claridge hotel, lobby transformed into a triage center, rooms lined with rows on rows of beds, their occupants moaning, crying, chatting, or staring blankly at the ceiling in various states of consciousness. It’s the endless flights of stairs when the elevator is too slow, the rush for supplies, the boundless piles of soiled linen. It’s the adrenaline-fueled mix of anticipation and dread while waiting for the next batch of patients, the sleepless nights assisting in makeshift operating rooms under the doctors’ watchful eyes. It’s seeing gruesome wounds on replay behind her eyelids when she finally collapses into bed. 

When she does venture out, forced outside by one of the others every month or so when her pallor becomes ghostlike, she wanders aimlessly, ears ever attuned to the wail of bomb sirens. With German soldiers camped practically on their doorstep the city is shrouded in the ominous threat of attack. People hurry down the streets a bit more quickly, afraid of the open air, and the absence of men is hard to ignore. Women run this town now, from the factories to the shops to the bakeries where it’s becoming ever more difficult to obtain rations. 

Still, they put on a brave face. This is Paris after all and there are plays and concerts and drinking in the cafes after work. But under the apparent merriment, their faces are gaunt and wan. Clarke can’t help thinking that it’s terribly taxing to play at fun.

As for the language of romance, Clarke has picked up a smattering of words from her patients. _Bras, jambe, tête, ça fait mal, balle, douleur, putain de boche, sang, merde_. She’s learned that doctor, morphine and whisky are universal words. _Merci_. That one hurts the most when whispered in relief from trembling lips she knew would stop breathing by morning. _Dit à Marie, à Sophie, à Geraldine, à mon fils, à ma mere…_ Tell them I love them. Tell them to be strong. Tell them I fought for my country and died bravely. Tell them I gave my life to the giant meat grinder that will demand the lives of millions more before it is appeased. _Restez…s’il vous plaît. Je suis ici._

She remembers the first one she lost, won’t ever forget it. A bayonet wound to the chest. They hadn’t pulled it out on the battlefield, but it had been jostled around during transport, widening the hole. Surprisingly, he was conscious when he arrived, despite a pierced lung and massive blood loss. Dr. Simmons set to work immediately while Clarke assisted, trying to understand and respond to the gurgling words he was so desperate to get out while ignoring the spew of blood that accompanied them. He was calm as his heart started giving out, eyes almost twinkling as he spoke of Grace, the girl with sun in her hair that called him an idiot for going off to war. She was right. She’s always right. His smile was ghastly, bloodstained and disfigured by his bodies slow responses, but Clarke smiled back and told him she sounded perfect. She pounded on his chest for a full five minutes after he was gone, pressing the wound closed, trying to get his heart started again. Dr. Simmons eventually pulled her away. For a week she saw his dead eyes every time she tried to sleep.

Clarke has learned to harden herself, to accept death while still fighting like hell to save those she can. It’s not always easy. Some days she feels numb, a butcher chopping and patching broken flesh and mangled limbs, sliced and broken by other men. Some days a hand squeezes hers in its last moment on Earth and she has to run up onto the roof and double over as sobs rack her body. 

But it’s worth it for the ones who survive, the ones they pull back from the brink, who get stronger every day and begin to chat and laugh and flirt. There’s still an edge of terror in their eyes, a look that says they’ll always be marred by what they’ve seen. Moods range from depression at facing life with permanent wounds to survivors’ guilt to euphoria at having survived hell. The boys from home, and they are mostly boys, Clarke can count on her hands the ones over 25, start speaking eagerly of London, grasping for shared experiences of the motherland they crave. 

The hospital runs like a well-oiled machine. In fact, the hospital in Paris has been so successful that they have since expanded to open a sister hospital in Wimereux, dividing the original team and recruiting local doctors to help staff them both. Garrett Anderson and Murray are tenacious leaders, practical and tireless, which keeps morale high. They seem to know when to stick to protocol and when to bend the rules, when to push the women harder and when to give them unexpected time off after a trying day.

Clarke is a little in awe at how well they work together. Most chalk it up to the years of shared experience, but Clarke feels there’s a certain intuition involved as well. It’s as if they have a continual, unspoken line of communication; a look, a nod, a shake of the head, a glancing touch. They move through life almost seamlessly, gently supporting and checking each other, even contradicting where necessary, but always better for it. Clarke once caught Dr. Murray gently waking Dr. Anderson from where she’d fallen asleep on a mountain of paperwork waiting for her to finish operating. There was a kind of secret tenderness in her touch, in the way Dr. Anderson’s eyes softened into a smile as she accepted the fresh cup of tea. A Something that made Clarke ache for Lexa all the more. 

\-------

‘Where is she?’ Clarke pants, hair and uniform askew as she elbows her way into the room.

‘Hello to you too, Griffin,’ Octavia replies from her perch on an exam table. 

Clarke takes in her pantleg slit open to the knee to reveal a long, deep slash in her calf. It may as well be a scratch for all the mind Octavia is paying it.

‘Is it true? You went into a hostile area and jostled with a German to get a man out?’

Octavia shrugs, aggravatingly nonplussed. 

‘He was bleeding pretty bad. If I hadn’t got him out then he might not have made it.’

‘Are you fucking kidding me? _You_ might not have made it.’ 

Octavia looks ready with another retort, until her eyes meet Clarke’s and she stills, catching the terror in her friend’s eyes. 

‘He was unarmed,’ she explains quietly. ‘I took him completely by surprise and after a few swift kicks he was fleeing. I got this diving for cover when his running attracted fire. Snagged it on some twisted piece of metal.’

Clarke feels the air slowly coming back into her lungs as she crosses the room and looks at the wound.

‘You got him in the truck and drove back with that?’

Octavia shrugs again. 

‘He wasn’t that big. Another soldier helped me out at the end. And I could drive that baby with one leg any day of the week.’ 

Clarke cracks a smile at this. A week ago they received a new truck stocked full with the latest medical supplies and instruments from some unknown benefactor. Octavia’s been over the moon, making twice as many trips as usual so she has extra excuses to drive it. 

Clarke takes over from the other doctor and starts stitching the cleaned wound with practiced movements. 

‘Just, be careful, O. I dunno what I’d do if anything happened to you.’

‘I am careful.’

Clarke narrows her eyes at her.

‘As careful as I can be,’ she sighs. ‘Look, some risks are worth it. If I can save a man’s life I need to take try, even if there’s a small chance I’ll get hurt. You get it. I mean, you’re here. I’ve seen you continue operating right through a bombing of the city.’

Clarke focuses on her hands, knowing the truth of Octavia’s words.

‘It’s just, we work with men who put their lives on the line every day, it’s hard not to do the same.’

Clarke nods, snipping the thread neatly and reaching for a bandage. 

‘I get it. Only…sometimes I think you’re a little too eager to go out looking for trouble, O. I can’t even remember the number of times I’ve had to patch you up now. Indra’s got you thinking you’re a soldier and you have the scars to prove it.’

Much to Clarke’s dismay, Octavia’s eyes actually sparkle at this.

‘I know! I told Lincoln that if I come home with more scars than him I get to choose our honeymoon.’

Clarke laughs, knowing full well that Lincoln would let her choose anyway. 

She’s wondered at their flippant take on wounds, before realizing that it’s their way of coping. Dwelling on the thought that your loved one is facing death every day can be paralyzing. 

‘If I ever find you’re doing it on purpose I’ll stitch you up with an extra thick needle.’

‘Fair enough.’

\-------

It’s a slow day in the ward, a rarity, Clarke thinks as she does her rounds. They discharged a number of patients yesterday and only a few have trickled in this week due to a stalemate on the battlefront. She’s stationed on the ground floor today, new arrivals. Most still too heavily medicated after surgery to need much more than routine monitoring. She scratches at the back of her neck, finding the strand of hair that escaped her bun to worry her skin. If she can get Dr. Walker to cover her ward for half an hour she might just get a chance to shower. It’s been four days. Five? What day is today?

She notices movement at the end of the room. Ah yes, the young man who stumbled onto their doorstep yesterday and promptly passed out before they could get a word from him. He had no identification tags, though his uniform was clearly French and they were hoping someone from the local war office could help them identify him once he was a little stronger. A gunshot wound just under the shoulder, if she’s not mistaken. Nothing too serious originally, though it was allowed to fester for several days so that infection has become the main problem. Antibiotics and regular changes to his dressing are the prescribed treatment. She might as well do it now if he’s awake. And see if she can find out anything about him in the meantime.

_Comment vous appelez-vous?_

She says the words in her head as she crosses the room, trying to wrap her mouth around the difficult vowels. _How do you call yourself._ The first time she heard it she marveled at the strange construction. People hardly call themselves by name after all.

He’s noticed her now, gray eyes hazy and frightened, stringy blond hair plastered to a sticky forehead, having long outgrown its crewcut. He’s younger than most, not a day over 20. His eyes go a little wild as she approaches and she reaches out her hands in a calming gesture. 

‘It’s ok,’ she says, voice calm if a little hoarse. _‘Tout…tout est bien.’_

No response, except he’s now fumbling with his sack that was brought in with him.

‘I’m a medic. _Docteur._ I just need to check your vitals.’

He’s not ignoring her exactly, his eyes keep darting from the bag to her it quick frenzied movements. He’s not listening though. It’s more like he’s measuring her movements, calculating proximity, time. He must still be in shock, she realizes.

‘I’m not gonna hurt you,’ she tries. ‘Help. _Aide.’_

She’s near the bed now, reaches out a hand to steady him, try to ease him back onto the bed, but he leaps back at her touch.

‘Stop!’ 

Clarke freezes. She understood perfectly, but it wasn’t English. Not the way he said ‘sh’ instead of ‘s’.

‘Ich werde sie verletzen, wenn ich muss.’

Definitely not French. She might not understand the words, but the panicked tone is unmistakable.

She sees now what he was reaching for in the bag; a terrifying, slim-barreled luger she’d only ever seen in pictures. 

_Shit._

She feels the ward beginning to stir behind her, the man’s desperate cry apparently waking the others.

‘No one will hurt you here,’ Clarke tries, holding her hands out to the sides slightly in a gesture of peace. ‘I just wanna help you. You’re very sick.’

She’s hoping he can understand the sentiment behind the words, if not their meaning. She can see him wince as puss drips from his bandage. He rocks slightly, still dizzy no doubt, even as he grips the gun hard, trying to steady himself. She tries taking another tentative step closer.

‘Nicht näher,’ he shrieks, thumb teasing the trigger. 

The meaning is clear. Stop. 

She does, not sure how much pressure is required for the gun to actually go off. Her eyes move quickly, sizing him up; brain spinning, trying to remember something, anything, from her combat training. 

He’s close, about three feet away, and weak, but that could also mean he’s less in control of the gun, that it could go off at any minute. 

Indra taught them something about guns, grab spin grip. Clarke remembers she was good that day, had a bit of an edge because she’s left-handed. Octavia talked about it for hours and hours that night.

‘You’re bleeding,’ she says calmly, chin jerking towards his shoulder where blood is beginning to ooze out of the bandage. 

His eyes flick down briefly before jittering back to her face. She raises her hands a little higher, near her shoulders, shuffles imperceptible closer. She just needs…

There. The minute his finger comes off the trigger she moves, left hand slamming hard into the barrel of the pistol, gripping and flipping it even as her right hand grabs his wrist, pressing into the soft spot next to his tendons. He releases it with a cry that is more surprise than pain. Clarke reacts to his shock by leaping back narrowly avoiding his knee. The ward has come alive behind her now, patients and a few doctors surging forward to help.

He falls back to the bed, poised, ready to pounce; eyes wild and desperate. Clarke spins the gun in her hand to an nonthreatening position. 

‘It’s ok,’ she says, biting down the adrenaline to keep her voice calm. ‘Let me help.’

Then he smiles. 

But it’s all wrong. A lopsided grimace tinged with resignation and desperate revenge. Clarke looks down to his hand. 

_A grenade._

He’s already pulled the pin. He makes no move to throw it or even shield himself, merely sits there, waiting for the inevitable. An end that might afford him some small, twisted measure of satisfaction. Clarke doesn’t think.

‘Duck,’ she yells jumping him, right fist aiming for his rotting shoulder as her left twists the grenade from his hand. 

He holds on for one sickening second before a shudder of pain relaxes his hold. Clarke kneels firmly on his chest and flings it, desperation giving her a surprising spurt of strength. It crashes through the window and explodes in midair, the blast sending deadly shards of glass and wood shooting through the room. 

Clarke just managed to duck her head behind her hands from her perch atop the German when she feels the blast lifting the bed and throwing them back. She lands with a thud, shoulder slamming into the bed behind her. 

Her ears are ringing, but one thought pierces through. 

_The gun._

She dropped it in her hurry for the grenade and it must be on the floor somewhere nearby. She tightens her hold on the German, fingers digging into his clothes as he tries to struggle from her grasp.

‘Lass mich los!’ he grunts, kicking dangerously close to her head. 

He is suddenly hoisted to his feet, arm twisted painfully behind his back. 

‘That’s enough,’ Indra hisses, cold eyes blazing with fury inches from his face.

He wilts under her stare, nods. She escorts him roughly from the room. 

Clarke slumps back to the floor, feeling the blood pounding in her head, her wrist, her throat. She tries to breathe through the adrenaline; shallow, shaky breaths. She only stirs when she feels a hand on her shoulder, looks up into Dr. Walter’s wide eyes. 

‘Clarke, let me see to those.’

She motions to her arm and it’s only then that Clarke registers the pain. She looks down to find glass shards sticking out all along her forearm, blood already dripping onto her pants. She stands gingerly, only to wince at the sharp jab of pain behind her left shoulder, tries to figure out if she hurt it in the blast or when she landed on the floor with the added weight of the German. A bit of both, maybe. Shrapnel from the blast pushed further inside in the fall. 

Dr. Walter is gentle as she leads her down the hall under the awed stares of the patients. They nod slightly as she passes, some salute. They walk through the lobby where she catches sight of the German sitting in a chair, arms already bound, face bleeding from multiple cuts. Indra looms over him, gun in hand. 

‘Wait,’ Clarke says, turning to them. ‘He needs to be treated before they take him. He won’t last a day with that infection.’

Indra’s eyes darken slightly at the suggestion. 

‘I’ll do it.’ The Scottish lilt announces Dr. Murray before she comes into view. She nods approvingly to Clarke. ‘Miss Griffin is right, we are doctors after all.’

Clarke nods, turns and continues towards one of the makeshift exam rooms.

‘Griffin.’ Indra’s husky call stops her once more. ‘That was as good as the seasoned soldiers on the battlefield, and probably braver than most.’

Clarke nods, swallowing the lump in her throat.

\-------

Clarke isn’t in shock exactly, just not quite sure what to feel. Numb. Is this shock? Maybe. But she also feels oddly clearheaded. 

She sat in silence while the doctor dug the glass and bits of metal from her arms and shoulder, sewed up the bigger gashes. Doctors and nurses flitted in and out, checking on her, telling her how brave she was. She gathered that no one else was hurt, that the hotel damage can be repaired fairly easily. She let the chatter wash over her, offering a few appropriate grunts in reply and excusing herself as soon as the doctor was done. 

She’s silent now in the growing darkness, barely aware of the city lights coming on as night falls. Her hands tremble slightly as she fingers the photograph on her lap. It’s a little faded, even though she pulls it out less these days than she did in the beginning. She traces the curve of Lexa’s face. _I could’ve died today. Would you have heard? Would you care? Are you even alive to care?_ She clutches is harder, willing her to answer. Something. Anything! It’s been a year, a whole bloody year without a word. Surely Lexa could’ve found a way. God, doesn’t she know she needs her?

It’s funny how much clarity the distance has given her. When she was with Lexa, it was wonderful. She knew she was happy, that they had something good. But how good, how rare it was, she never really had the chance to figure out. Only now, after meeting and interacting with hundreds of people, she realizes that the easy proximity, the comfort and mutual respect, the magnetism that propelled them into each other, was a once in a lifetime thing. Once in a lucky lifetime. She hadn’t clung to it nearly tightly enough. 

She belatedly registers the sound of the door to the stairs closing when she feels a figure approaching. Has Octavia returned? No, this presence is steadier, calmer. Octavia is more like a whirlwind. Dr. Anderson takes a seat beside her. 

‘You know, they say roofs should be avoided with the threat of bombings.’

Clarke looks up, not sure how to respond, then catches the twinkle in her eye. 

‘I suppose we should add medical wards to that list too.’

She chuckles softly in response.

‘Are you ok?’ Her voice is soft but not patronizing. 

Clarke nods. 

‘Dr. Walter patched me up pretty good.’

She inclines her head, sizing Clarke up. ‘There are different kinds of wounds.’

Clarke sighs. She’s not quite sure what to say. Not sure if she’s ok at all, if she has been for over a year. 

Anderson’s eyes travel to her lap, find the picture. Clarke could hide it, probably should. But she doesn’t. She’s tired of carrying the weight of her longing inside her. 

Anderson is quiet for a moment. Then, ‘She’s beautiful. It does help to think of loved ones in times like these.’

Clarke scoffs bitterly. ‘I don’t know if she’s a loved one. I…we never said…I haven’t heard from her since the war started.’ She shudders slightly, voice growing quieter with each word. 

Anderson’s hand reaches for Clarke’s free one, squeezing. She meets her eyes, holds them gently for a moment. 

‘But you don’t know that she isn’t.’

Clarke feels her shoulders dip as she lets out a shaky breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. 

‘Our whole lives are built on hope, Miss Griffin. Sometimes it’s all we have, but sometimes it also turns out to be enough.’

Clarke gulps, trying to dislodge the tangle of indiscernible emotions that seem to have lodged in her throat. She squeezes the hand back and they sit in silence as they watch the last traces of sunlight leave the sky.

\-------

There’s an uneasy murmur in the makeshift meeting room as the Claridge staff assemble. Morning briefings are almost unheard of, there’s far too much to do, so when meetings are called the news is usually big. They quiet down as Anderson and Murray take to the front. The news is almost too good to be true. Apparently the War Office, after being swamped with good reports of their hospitals, are inviting them to return to London and open a hospital for wounded soldiers under the Royal Army Medical Corps. They will be taking a group of women back to set it up and the rest will follow once enough local women can be trained to manage the hospital here. 

The room begins buzzing with excitement. This kind of recognition for their efforts by their own country is incredible. At last they will be getting the resources and backing they deserve. Not to mention that it will go a long way towards women being recognized as valuable contributors to their country. 

They quiet down again as assignments are distributed. Most are staying for now, and the French government has promised to send over ten new women with medical experience by the end of the week. Clarke and Octavia exchanging glances as the names are read out. Clarke’s mind is racing. If they’re sent to different places what will she do? Octavia’s not the greatest comforter, but just knowing she’s there is a huge consolation. She doesn’t think she can stand having the last piece of home ripped away. 

Then the meeting is being dismissed and Clarke still hasn’t heard her name. The women begin dispersing, eager to get back to their wards and check on their patients.

‘Miss Griffin, would you stay a moment? You too, Miss Blake.’

They nod and begin edging towards the front as the others make their way past them, shooting them curious looks as they do. 

‘We’ve received word that three of the doctors at Wimereux have taken ill with TB, leaving them dreadfully understaffed. They’ll need help, if only for a month or so.’

‘We thought of you,’ Murray continues, ‘because you’re both excellent at adapting to new situations, a skill that is hard to come by and can’t be easily taught. We feel you’d be the most useful there and can pick up where you left off when you come back here.’

Clarke feels a thrill of relief. They’re not being discarded. 

‘We’ll stay here then?’

‘For now, yes. We thought it best,’ Dr. Murray replies. ‘You’ve both proven your extraordinary worth near the battlefront. You’ve taken to trauma quite fantastically, Miss Griffin. And Miss Blake, many a soldier owes their life to your daring rescues.’

Octavia flushes with pride.

‘We will eventually turn this entire hospital over to the French, but until then your talents are most useful here.’

\-------

Wimereux is not too different as far as Clarke is concerned, except she wakes to the smell of salt and the sound of seagulls. She might have noticed that it’s nothing like Paris, just a small coastal village with makeshift army tents occupying more area than the town itself, except she hardly lifts her head from her patients long enough to register her surroundings. 

It’s a busier medical center in a way, with more patients passing through on their way back to the UK, but they have fewer long-term patients as most return to England as soon as they can make the trip. Octavia is busier than ever, not only picking up patients, but transporting them to the trains that will take them home. 

She is tweezing shrapnel from a private’s leg when a voice from the past shatters her concentration.

‘Clarke?’

She freezes, tweezes hovering over the boy who looks more perplexed by the minute. _It can’t be._

‘Lincoln?’

But it is. A little less bulky perhaps, face slightly thinner, older, but no doubt him. 

She drops the tweezers and runs. He barely manages to brace himself before she’s barreling into him, arms wrapping hard around his torso. God it feels good! 

They’d never been close, not really, but right now he’s here, a solid presence that represents a tenuous link to everything she’d been hoping for. Well everyone. Ok, the one. 

She pulls back quickly when he winces. 

‘You’re hurt,’ she says, eyes widening in concern.

‘It’s nothing,’ he replies dismissively. ‘It’s already been seen to. I came here to bring one of my men.’

Clarke’s face darkens suspiciously. ‘When?’

‘Yesterday.’

She shakes her head, thinks she’d punch him in the shoulder if she didn’t have qualms about hurting the wounded. 

‘Come sit down, I’ll have a look as soon as I finish patching Pierre up.’

Lincoln seems all too happy to oblige, pulling up a chair to watch her work.

‘How long have you been here?’

‘Three weeks. We’re set to stay till November at least, then it’s back to Paris.’

He nods. ‘Is Octavia here too?’

Clarke smiles softly, ‘Yes. Running a batch of soldiers to the train. She should be back in an hour or so.’ 

He smiles back, a wistful, incredulous smile. Clarke is thrilled at the thought of Octavia’s surprise when she returns to find him here. She also kind of hates her, hates that their happiness reminds her of the aching hollow in her chest. 

She bites back the desire to ask, the soldier might not appear to speak English but you never know. She finishes quickly, pats him on his knee to signal that she’s done and he hops down, limping out of the tent. 

‘Let’s see then,’ she says to Lincoln. 

He sits on the table and lifts his shirt. She removes the soiled bandage to find a long, angry gash wrapping around his left torso. No infection, though. Whoever patched him up did a good job. She pokes around in her kit and sets to work.

‘So, any news from home?’ She tries to sound nonchalant, but knows he can hear the way her pitch rises, cracking her voice.

‘Lucius joined the Royal Navy,’ he says quietly.

Clarke feels her insides turn cold, intestines knotting around her stomach.

‘It’s not what you think,’ he continues softly. ‘He’s working with cryptanalysis, codebreaking. He speaks both French and German and is a bit of a whiz at patterns. They were lucky to get him.’

Clarke feels a rush of relief, so not the front lines then. And also pride, a broad, crazy kind of pride. 

‘I’m sure he’s brilliant at it,’ she says, picking up on Lincoln’s use of pronouns. They appear to be alone but one never knows.

‘Lady Woolcott has opened her home to orphans, or at least children who won’t know whether or not they’re orphans until the war is settled. It’s temporary, but from what I gather they are thrilled to be living in the biggest house they’ve ever seen.’

Clarke feels herself smile wistfully, heart expanding, pressing against her ribs. Because of course Lexa would. Lexa, who lost both her parents, would never leave a child helpless if she could possible prevent it. Also, it’s just like her to try and juggle two hero acts simultaneously.

She feels a grip of anxiety in her gut at her next question. 

‘She hasn’t…I haven’t heard anything.’

He nods, reaches into his army jacket, rummages around until he finds a small, leather purse. From inside he pulls an envelope, yellowed and warped around the edges. It must have been in there for a long time. 

Clarke takes it greedily, stares at it in awe. She feels raw tears of relief in her eyes.

‘Wait till you’re alone,’ Lincoln says softly. 

She nods, tucks it away and turns back to his dressing.

\-------

The afternoon seems to drag on and on, months and years crammed into the hours before she finally finds herself alone at the edge of camp. She pulls out the envelope reverently. It’s blank, no address or seal. Nothing that can be traced. She caresses it for a minute, almost afraid of opening it. After all this time waiting, what will it be? Finally she inhales deeply, bracing herself, and slips out the flap to peer inside. 

It’s not a letter but what appears to be a page from a book folded rather awkwardly. She unfolds it to find a violet, pressed neatly and preserved. Clarke feels a sob in her throat remembering the day she brought them to her doorstep, the way Lexa’s eyes sparkled wetly as she pulled her inside and kissed her against the door, the way her hands gripped her waste hard, almost desperately, the way they looked in a vase in her study as she lounged on the couch and pretended to read while secretly watching Lexa at her desk.

She presses the page to her nose and is transported back. Books. Solitude. Lexa. A tear falls now, hitting the page, and she dabs at it fiercely, wanting to preserve it. 

No letter. Why no letter? Doesn’t she know how hungry Clarke is for just a few words to tell her that she isn’t going mad, that she’s not alone in the feelings that churn and gnaw at her whenever she’s not buried in work. 

Just a violet. Is it goodbye? A keepsake, a way to immortalize the memories of what can nevermore be? Is it, as violets are meant to symbolize, an expression of interest? _I still think of you. I wait for you._ Why must everything be so infuriatingly enigmatic? It’s all very well and good for Lexa to work in codebreaking, but Clarke just wants one sentence in plain English to tell her what she feels. 

Then she notices that the page, while faded and colored by the flower, still has a few legible lines. It seems to be a poem of sorts. She freezes after reading the first line, eyes widening in realization. It’s one of Sappho’s, the poem the violets come from. 

_I have not had one word from her_

_Frankly I wish I were dead  
When she left, --------------_

_\------------------ , "This parting must be  
\--------------------go unwillingly."_

_\---------------------------- py_

\-----------------------------------

 _\---------------------------ave shackled by love_

_"If you forget m----ink_

_\-------------------------that we shared_

Nothing decipherable in the next few lines and then at the very bottom 

_\-----------------------------ts girls with  
all that t---most wis--d for beside them_

Tears again, but slightly more hopeful this time. Maybe it isn’t ‘goodbye’. Maybe it’s ‘I’m still thinking of you.’

After all, sometimes all you have is hope. And sometimes it’s all you need.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still no Lexa. I know, I hate it too, but war sucks. At least we get a little glimpse at what she's been up to.
> 
> In case you're wondering, I got the disarming move Clarke uses from [HERE](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cmQk3DnTcSs). The one at about minute 1:10.
> 
> You can find Sappho's full poem [HERE](http://www.blight.com/~sparkle/poems/sappho.htm) .
> 
> Thanks for reading. If you have any questions or thoughts drop me a line.


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our weary hero returns to London.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This mess of a chapter was fueled by whisky, Evanescence, and grief over Patsy and Delia leaving. Hope it's not as bad as that makes it sound. :)
> 
> Special thanks to @lapizsilkwood for keeping me sane (mainly by going a little mad along with me).

Clarke closes her eyes, inhaling deeply: burning coal, manure, sweat, fried fish and jellied eels with nutmeg, sewage. She smiles. 

_London!_

It’s been three years. Almost three and a half. Funny in all her years wrinkling her nose at the olfactory assault, she never thought she’d miss it, never imagined it would bring a lump of emotion to her throat. She feels the tingling coil of excitement as she breathes it in, revels in the feeling of home; not caring a bit for how she’s jostled and yelled at for standing in the middle of the platform. Impatience feels very homey too.

She opens her eyes just in time to catch Raven’s flying hug, stumbling back and nearly into the portly gentleman behind them. He tries to catch their eyes with an exaggerated sigh and disapproving shake of his head, but neither pay him any mind. They hold each other, tight, feeling the years of nostalgia wash over them.

‘Damn it, Griffin, let me look at you,’ she says, finally breaking the hug. ‘A bit scrawny.’ A critical nose wrinkle. ‘Though judging by your death grip you haven’t gotten any weaker.’

Clarke laughs, sizing her friend up in return. Her face is slightly more worn, but her eyes still have their trademark twinkle. She’s stronger too, easily swinging Clarke’s bag over her shoulder as they walk. 

‘Where’s O?’

‘She decided to stay on a bit longer. They still need ambulance drivers and she’s honestly one of the best. Also, Lincoln’s still over there.’

Raven gives her a knowing smirk.

Truth be told, Clarke almost stayed too. Had stayed much longer than she had to.

Oh she’d yearned to be back, felt the gnawing need pulling her towards Lexa, driving her to find the woman whose memory haunts her. 

But she still isn’t sure how she’ll fit in here. Things were simple in France, there was a need, and she had the skills to fill it. It hardly mattered that she had no official training. She was good at her job, recognized and respected, able to make a difference. She wasn’t so sure it’d be the same here. 

The Endell Street Military Hospital is still run entirely by women. Dr. Garrett Anderson and Dr. Murray have been doing a famous job and it is debatably the best hospital for wounded soldiers in England. But it’s all official now, attached to the Royal Army Medical Corps. Everything is extremely regulated, what with the meticulous scrutiny and an underlying hope that they’ll stuff up and have to turn the management over to men. Clarke’s not sure how a scrappy medic with a smattering of experience will fit in, despite the doctors’ written assurance that there is indeed a place for her with them.

And if she’s being honest—the real, uncomfortable kind of honest—she’ll admit that part of her is afraid of seeing Lexa again. 

It was different in the beginning, in the first weeks and months of their separation. It felt like she could pick up where she left off, rush to her, pull her to some quiet room and let all the pent-up emotions spill out in a jumble of words and touches and kisses that somehow Lexa would understand because they were still connected. But as time passed the distance between them seemed to stretch as well.

If she sees her now she won’t know. Won’t know what code of conduct applies. Won’t know if she still has the right to run to her, to casually slip into her space, if she’s still welcome. Will things will be stilted and awkward? Will she have the guts to breach the dam she so painstakingly built over the years, not quite knowing what will come gushing out? Will Lexa be appalled by the raw need that’s built up inside her, its ever-present throb the companion that Lexa couldn’t be? She doesn’t know if the woman she knew once—almost knew, briefly, a long time ago—still exists at all. 

And until she meets her again she can hope. The Lexa in her mind still offers her the key to her house, still kisses her as if she’s coming up for air; a little dazed, a little incredulous. Still tenderly, reverently, traces her fingers along her skin, looking at her with a softness that squeezes in all the right places. 

But will the real Lexa do the same?

It’s been over two years since the violet and dismembered poem, which Clarke keeps wrapped safely with her portrait. Even with Clarke’s most hopeful interpretation, which allows her to believe that the Lexa who sent her that was still thinking of her, waiting for her, that Lexa isn’t the same Lexa as the one she’d meet now. Can something built in a few dizzying weeks last years?

She realizes Raven’s been speaking to her and is now waiting for some kind of answer.

‘I’m sorry, what’d you say?’ Clarke asks.

She rolls her eyes a little. ‘I asked if you have to report back to duty right away.’

‘Oh. No,’ Clarke replies. ‘I have a week off before I’m expected. They thought it might be a good idea for me to get reacquainted with the city, try and readjust to civilian life before going back.’

‘Excellent. Then you can join the rally tomorrow?’

‘Rally?’ Clarke asks, trying the word out in her mouth. It feels strange, like a word used by another person in a different life.

‘Tomorrow,’ Raven replies, ‘in front of the House of Lords, to support their confirmation of the Bill passed by the Commons.’

She says the words naturally enough, but with an underlying snideness that tells Clarke she’s well aware it’s the first she’s hearing of them.

‘What Bill?’ she asks, voice as incredulous as she feels. 

Raven smiles, pulls a bundle of paper out of her satchel. Clarke grabs it eagerly. ‘Representation of the People’s Act’ stares up at her in boldfaced letters. She begins skimming through it as Raven steers her through the crowd. Her eyes grow wide as she reads.

‘This was approved by the House of Commons?’

‘A sweeping 385 to 55 votes,’ Raven replies with a grin.

Clarke’s raised eyebrows say it all.

‘How? Last time…’

‘It seems some astute MPs who support votes for women saw an opportunity. Women have proven themselves throughout the war. Combine that with the fact that, with so many men off to war, the shortage of voters could result in a rather embarrassing situation for the government, and voila! A winning Bill.’

Clarke’s thoughts immediately go to Lexa. Hours spent in her study assessing the political climate, crafting the right arguments to fit the mood. 

‘It’s hardly what we hoped for, we tried for 25 but they blocked that. Still…’

Indeed, the Bill is hardly ideal. Only women over 30 who own property, whether in their own right or through marriage, would be allowed to vote. Meanwhile the vote would be given to all men over 21 regardless of property ownership, with the age lowered to 19 if they served in the war. The double standard is glaringly obvious.

‘Yeah. Some women are boycotting the rally, saying the Bill doesn’t represent their interests in the slightest. You can hardly blame them.’

Clarke doesn’t. The majority of women involved in the suffragist and suffragette movements are either working class, or middle class women who, like Clarke, left their homes when their parents disapproved of their politics. These are the same women who have worked tirelessly in the munition factories and other ancillary branches to support the war. Women whose efforts have made possible a Bill that excludes them. Still, baby steps.

‘When’s the vote?’

‘They meet tomorrow morning.’

Clarke feels a little thrill of excitement ripple through her. After all this time, they might finally have a breakthrough. Deeds, not words.

\------- 

It’s oddly comforting to find the pharmacy relatively unchanged. Mr. Davies is still there, laboring over his medicine cabinets. He hurries to pull Clarke into a hug, something he hasn’t done since the day her father died. His arms tremble slightly as they grip her and Clarke squeezes back, grateful to find home missed her as much as she missed it. The room upstairs is still free and he offers it to Clarke until she relocates to Endell Street, which she gratefully accepts. 

Raven is off with a wincing apology. Apparently being foreman in an airplane plant wasn’t enough and she joined the Royal Women’s Air Force, where she was quickly promoted to instructor once her many talents became apparent. She has to rush off to ‘harangue aspiring airplane mechanics into professionals’ as she gleefully puts it, and Clarke is left alone to unpack her meager belongings. 

It’s a dismal business. There is something strangely depressing about seeing her life reduced to a suitcase. The years at war, those before it living above the pharmacy since leaving home, and all she has to show for it is a couple of dresses, her uniforms, a smattering of weathered books and knickknacks, her sketch binder, and the few paltry items that she has of Lexa. No real home. No official family. No recognition for her service. She is, in essence, a drifter. It makes coming home a little hollow.

She tries not to think of Lucius’s study, the feeling of peace that permeated her there, the sense that she finally fit somewhere. She studiously doesn’t think of it as she bustles around the pharmacy, helping with the afternoon orders despite Mr. Davies’s protests. She continues not thinking about it through tea and an edited account of her war experiences. She certainly doesn’t think of it as they toast her return and Mr. Davies forbids her from helping with the washing up. She pushes it away when she returns to her room, book in hand, trying to reacquaint herself with a life free of crying, oozing emergencies. Until at last she’s completely drained by not thinking about it and the thoughts come rushing through.

She can’t.

Can’t put off knowing any longer. Can’t put off seeing her. Whatever her uncertainties, whatever the verdict, she needs to know.

She pads down the stairs and goes out the back to avoid having to concoct an explanation for Mr. Davies. Her old bike is still leaning in its usual place and she pedals swiftly towards Lucius’s house, letting her muscle memory take over directions as she tries to quell the gripping anxiety. 

She finds the house more lit than she ever remembers seeing it. Almost every room glows with pale lights. She parks at the gate and takes the stairs slowly, breathing out the adrenaline which she half-heartedly tries to attribute to the ride. Resisting the urge to find the spare key, she rings instead, doorbell echoing through the house. It jogs memories of hearing it from the other side, crisp and strident, an unwelcome interruption to languid afternoons in Lexa’s company.

A thud of footsteps, heavy. Clarke inhales. This is it.

A middle-aged woman, matronly would be the word, opens the door with a questioning raise of her eyebrows.

‘I’m afraid visiting hours are over, Miss. You’ll have to come back tomorrow.’

She has a slight accent, from up north maybe. Clarke furrows her brows, perplexed at the greeting. 

‘I’m looking for the proprietor, Lucius Wood?’

‘Ah yes, Mr. Wood. Bless him.’ Her face lights up at the name. ‘I’m afraid he’s not here. He no longer resides here since he offered his home as a convalescent center for veterans. He does drop in from time to time, to check on the wounded. It cheers them so to see him, dashing and optimistic as he is in his officer’s uniform.’

Clarke blinks, taking it all in, temporarily unable to conflate her memory of Lucius’s home and the idea of a convalescent center. Only one thing resonates: she isn’t here.

‘Do you know where I can find him?’ she asks quietly.

‘Och, I’m afraid not, dear. All he said was that he would find accommodations elsewhere. I can tell him you dropped by though.’

‘Yes…I mean, no. That won’t be necessary, thank you.’

Clarke says farewell and makes her way back to her bike. Dazed. She could’ve left a message, should’ve perhaps. But what to say. _I’m here._ Find me. She’s tired of waiting for Lexa to find her.

With a long sigh she remounts her bike, pedaling home to stare at the ceiling until the sun tells her she can stop trying to sleep. 

\-------

‘Well don’t you look smart,’ Clarke says eyeing Raven’s crisp, navy blue uniform. She’s even wearing the hat to match which she tips jauntily at Clarke’s compliment. 

Clarke has her own uniform on, the better of the two sets she owns, which is decidedly more worn and stained than Raven’s. But she took a good while yesterday washing and pressing it, and as they step into the sunlight, sashes boldly draped across their chests, she feels proud. 

They’re not scurrying to the plaza like last time, creeping through the streets and pulling out their banners at the last minute. They’re walking tall, shoulders squared, buttons and badges glinting, armed with the proof that they went out and did exactly what women had been deemed incapable of doing. And then some. 

Clarke finds she quite likes the thought of participating in a rally she didn’t have to plan. Anderson and Murray are there along with whatever doctors could be spared this morning. They greet Clarke warmly and she finds herself enveloped in the camaraderie of shared experiences. They don’t speak of France or the front today, but there’s a difference in the way they come together, a shared respect, a silent intimacy that comes from witnessing each other in extreme moments. It makes for a rare kind of bond.

They are all thoroughly impressed by Raven as well, and she spends a few minutes explaining how the WRAF came to be and what activities it entails while they wait for the rally to begin. 

The mood is light, almost festive. They belt out their hopeful chants with buzzing enthusiasm, bolstered by their recent victory in the House of Commons. But as the first hour winds down apprehensive murmurs begin to ripple through the crowd. Clarke breaks away from the doctors to try and find Raven again, hoping she can clue her in on what’s happening. She spies her near the door, trying to wheedle information out of the guard.

‘Anything?’ Clarke asks as she moves back into the crowd.

‘They haven’t started yet. Lord Kane isn’t here,’ she doesn’t try to hide the worry from her tone. ‘Since he’s the main spokesperson in favor of the Bill they decided to discuss other matters first in the hopes that he’ll still arrive in time.’

Clarke feels a clump of nerves bundle in her gut at the news. Lord Kane is undoubtedly their best chance. The House of Lords is notoriously more opposed to giving women the vote than the Commons, and Marcus’s absence could cripple their chances significantly. 

The second hour comes and goes and there’s still no sign of him. A handful of half-hearted chants echo throughout the crowd, but most of the women are just waiting, a sea of faces wearing the same mask of worry. They strain to see when a secretary pops his head out and whispers something to the guard who nods importantly. He waits till the man disappears inside again before inclining his head at Raven. She bolts forward, listens, cringes slightly, before returning to Clarke. 

‘They’re taking a ten-minute recess and then voting on the Bill with or without the Lord Kane present.’

Clarke shares her cringe as the news spreads through the women. Someone with a megaphone tries to start up a chant. The replies lack the easy enthusiasm of earlier, but there’s still a dogged hopefulness in them. Clarke turns to face the women, raising her voice as her fist beats out the rhythm in the air. She’ll be damned if they don’t fight till the last second to see this passed. 

But the chant flounders again when there’s a flurry to her right, women pressing forward and talking excitedly. Someone’s arrived. Clarke sees a sleek black car at the entrance, but it’s already empty.

Is it him?’ she asks. 

She’s met with a myriad of speculations but no concrete information. She elbows her way nearer the entrance and begins to hear snippets of ‘woman’ and ‘lady’. That can’t be right. 

As if on cue she hears a rather stern-faced woman proclaim importantly, ‘I’m telling you it was Lady Woolcott. I’ve seen her several times when she’s come into the shop.’

Clarke freezes, feet rooted to the spot. Surely not. Women aren’t allowed into the House of Lords. And Lexa, she wouldn’t. She’s always so careful to play by the rules.

\-----

Lexa forces shaky breaths into her lungs, hands clasping and unclasping into fists at her sides. 

Was that Clarke outside? She thought she caught a glimpse, the back of a head, sun reflecting off golden locks. But no. She’s being absurd again. She always thinks she sees her, usually when the ache is strongest, her subconscious trying to soothe her restless longing. Blond hair, a walk with almost the right kind of swagger, a smile that curves the side of her lip just so, both cocky and genuine, blue eyes, a husky voice that makes her stomach flutter, the smell of sodium hypochlorite. 

It’s never her. Of course it isn’t. It cannot be when she’s…when she’s gone. Across the channel, risking life and limb in that selfless, reckless way that is Clarke; the woman who wants to fix all the problems of the world and couldn’t possibly tell you one of her own. That’s what makes her so…

She sighs, strangles the thought, pushes it down with the others. The inner doors loom before her and she cannot afford to be distracted, not now. Her nails dig a little deeper into her palms.

_Steady. You’ve come this far. Alea iacta est._

She gives the doorman a curt nod and the doors are swung open. 

Her footsteps are sure. _Clip, clip, clip,_ echoing dramatically in the silence that seized the room on her entry. It’s almost amusing, how the sight of a woman in their seat of power leaves them stupefied. Their eyes are on her; accusing, predatory, outraged. She meets them steadily, unmoved. She can feel her husband to her left glaring a hole into the side of her head, but offers him no more than a perfunctory glance as her eyes sweep the room and focus on the man at the podium.

‘My lords,’ she begins, voice carrying easily through the room. ‘I regret to inform you that Lord Kane has been unavoidably detained.’

‘Yes, thank you, Lady Woolcott,’ the Lord Chancellor interjects, cutting her short. ‘We had reached that conclusion ourselves and were just preparing to take the vote without him.’

Lexa smiles graciously at the dismissal. She’s danced this dance a hundred times, all that’s changed is her costume. Lord Finlay is a temporary appointment, perhaps slightly unsure in his authority. That could be useful. 

‘If I may, Lord Chancellor, seeing as a substantial portion of this Bill concerns women—of which I happen to be one—and I bear the same rank as Lord Kane, I would like to request that I be allowed to address the House in his stead. After all,’ she flashes a conspiratorial smirk, ‘we British are renowned for our sportsmanship, and it’s hardly a fair spar if one side has no champion.’ Her voice is light, both slightly teasing and chiding, as if they are a group of school boys caught cheating.

A few chuckles and disapproving murmurs echo through the hall. 

‘A woman addressing the House before a vote? That is a preposterous notion, Lord Chancellor, regardless of her rank. I apologize for this interruption.’ Lord Woolcott, voice both annoyed and regretful, makes to step forward and escort Lexa from the room. 

If he is taken aback by her opposing stance he doesn’t show it. His is the role of longsuffering husband dealing with one of his wife’s little outbursts. Of course he would presume to speak for her, to patronize and save face, diminishing and discrediting her before she even begins. Nothing unexpected.

‘There are many notions that may appear slightly less preposterous after today,’ Lexa replies evenly, meeting his hard stare with a defiant lift of her eyebrow. 

‘Indeed, how many times have women been called weak,’ she turns now looking at each lord in turn, inviting them into their discussion, ‘incapable of men’s jobs, lacking the mental faculties to tackle the more mathematic and scientific roles? And yet, have they not proven otherwise over the last few years.’

Proven you wrong is what she wants to say, but she knows that being spoken to by a woman they expect their egos to be protected even as they are cajoled. It’s not the time to antagonize them. 

‘We have risen without preparation to fill the gaps of our nation on every level, laboring alongside the men, seeing not only to the ordinary running of things, stepping seamlessly into roles previously reserved for men, but extending production to include the arms and munitions required at the front. All this alongside the upkeep of our domestic duties. 

‘We have been accused of lacking political inclinations, but women across the country have demonstrated the same national pride and patriotism as men, rushing to the front to support them, effectively navigating the hierarchies of authority, and liaising with our allies. 

She stands, fearless and stately in their midst, turning slowly to meet every face as she speaks. They seem to have forgotten she was never actually granted permission to do so, momentarily silenced by the authority she exudes.

‘My lords, our nation is at a crossroads with so much of its electorate abroad. You know as well as I do that the vote cannot be postponed further. Now, more than ever, we need strength at home, we need voters who are committed to this country, invested in the success of its governing body. We need citizens who understand its needs and are dedicated to preserving its values.

‘My lords, women are among those citizens. It’s high time we recognized that.’

Her closing argument echoes through the room as the men take in her words. She returns her look to the Lord Chancellor, handing him back the floor with a slight nod.

‘Thank you, Lady Woolcott. Your observations are astute and well-presented. We will bear them in mind as we take the vote. May I ask you to wait outside that protocol might be observed?’

Lexa nods, turning to sweep out of the room, dress swishing behind her. She doesn’t spare Lord Woolcott a backwards glance.

She sits perfectly still under the doorman’s none-too-subtle gaze, focusing on her breathing, feeling her heart beat in her wrists. This is it. Goddess let the risk be worth it.

Roughly 320 breaths later the doors swing open and a secretary emerges. 

‘My lady,’ he begins, eyes shining with the news he is come to impart, ‘the votes are in.’

‘And?’ Lexa asks, fighting the impatience from her tone.

’71 against, 134 in favor. It passed!’

He smiles then, a wide, triumphant smile that tugs at the corners of Lexa’s own mouth. She swallows the little cry of joy she wants to give.

‘Well, that’s rather splendid, isn’t it?’ she replies, tone almost conspiratorial. ‘Thank you.’

He bows his head in acknowledgement and Lexa turns to go.

‘If I may,’ he adds, tone filled with a quavering kind of bravery. ‘That was one of the finest speeches I’ve witnessed; informed, objective and persuasive, with a succinctness that made it memorable. It lends absurdity to the notion that women’s minds are unsuited to politics.’

Lexa smiles again, nods in acceptance of his compliment. 

The veiled hat shields her from the worst of the midday sun as she hurries out to the car. She must get home. Theodore…

But she can’t help turning, scanning the crowd, if only to disprove the illogical hope inside her. 

Then she freezes. Blue eyes. Not blue eyes _like_ Clarke’s. Clarke’s eyes! Searching, haunting, ripping open her carefully maintained façade. The air is knocked from her lungs as she stares, rooted to the spot, held captive by the apparition. For surely, it _cannot_ be Clarke. She has simply willed herself mad at last. 

Then the crowd moves between them, surging forward, shouting requests for news. Gustus takes her elbow firmly, snapping her back to her intended getaway. She lingers a moment longer, trying to find the face again, before she lets him bundle her in. If she doesn’t leave now she’ll never get away and she has to get back in time to…

‘Are you alright, my lady?’ Gustus asks, watching her in the rearview mirror as they pull into the street. Lexa realizes she’s trembling, balls her hands into fists to try and keep herself from unravelling further. How can one look to be so disconcerting? She closes her eyes, swallowing hard, willing her mind back into control.

‘Lexa?’ His voice is softer, laced with concern.

‘I am,’ she replies shakily. ‘Clarke…’

She doesn’t finish her sentence. Doesn’t need to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is, of course, a chapter in which I've taken extensive creative license. Don't trust me for the facts. ;-)
> 
> Shoutout to @juliebeaufortstuart for the idea of putting Raven in the WRAF.


	24. Chapter 24

_Lexa._

The exhalation escapes her lips the moment she sees Gustus standing next to the car. 

_Lexa’s here._

How? Why? 

Her heart pounds against her ribcage as she tries to make sense of it. _Lord Kane. She’s speaking for Lord Kane. It seems impossible though, women aren’t…_

Slowly she becomes aware of the chatter around her.

‘…some desperate ploy of her husband’s, no doubt. Bring a woman in, young and beautiful as she is. Have her tell them she’s perfectly happy staying home with her embroidery, and BAM! out go our arguments. It’s Lady Albin all over again.’

‘But Nia has always been staunchly opposed to women having the vote since she controls her husband anyways. We haven’t heard anything from Lady Woolcott before now, despite how vociferous her husband is.’

‘It doesn’t really matter what we’ve heard. She might be a surprise weapon. She doesn’t even have to agree necessarily, just go along with what he wants.’

‘Because you do everything your husband says, don’t you, Margaret? Where does he think you are today? Helping a sick aunt?’

‘Oh can it, Emily. I’m just saying I can’t stomach another woman without a care in the world turning into a backstabbing traitor to protect her cozy lifestyle.’

‘Well we don’t know that she is. What if it’s a personal matter unrelated to the Bill? She might not even know what’s going on. Many noblewomen steer clear of politics.’

‘Or she’s speaking on our behalf.’

Clarke’s quiet voice easily captures the attention of the women nearby.

‘How d'you mean?’ Margaret asks skeptically.

‘What if she went in there to tell them why we _should_ have the vote?’

‘Would she?’ Emily asks, stunned by the notion. ‘Her husband is the spokesman for the opposition.’

‘But she’s not her husband,’ Clarke replies simply, echoing words spoken to her years ago in a sunlit study.

The women are reflexive, trying to wrap their heads around the notion that a noblewoman would defy her husband to his face in an official gathering of his peers.

Just then Raven catches up to her.

‘Shit, Griff, did you see who it is?’

Clarke nods, chest still too tight to trust her voice with Raven.

‘Do you think she…what the hell is she up to?’

Clarke shrugs, still trying to keep her hope in check. ‘I haven’t seen her in years, Rae,’ she says at last, ‘but if the Lexa I knew went in there…’

‘She’d be telling a bunch of pompous windbags what’s what using pretty words.’

Clarke cracks a smile. ‘Something like that.’

Raven gives a little whoop and punches her in the shoulder before disappearing into the throng in search of a megaphone. 

The chants start up again with renewed gusto. All it takes is a little hope after all.

\-------

Clarke is closer when she comes out, sweeping triumphantly from the building like a warrior returning from a successful campaign. Her back is turned, posture impeccable, stately in her forest green dress. Clarke aches as more intimate images of the same back come flooding back unbidden, the muscles that ripple when she moves, the goosebumps that sprout under Clarke’s fingers, the taste of her skin. 

She turns then, and Clarke finds herself staring at the same veiled hat she wore on their first encounter all those years ago. Once again she feels rather than sees her eyes looking at her, studies the way her jaw works as she swallows; entranced, oblivious to everything but her. She wants to move, to speak, to reach her. Her body doesn’t work. 

Then women move between them, blocking her view, clamoring to know what happened inside. When they part again, all Clarke can see is the black car retreating down the street. She wants to run, shove people aside and sprint to catch the car at an intersection. But before she can pursue her wild plan a hand grips her arm. 

‘Clarke, she did it!’

Clarke turns to Raven, momentarily perplexed by her words. Everything feels a little murky.

‘Lady Woolcott,’ Raven offers, catching on to her state. ‘You were right. The secretary says she strode in there, argued in favor of the Bill without waiting for an invitation to speak, and swept the floor with her husband’s pettiness. We got almost two-thirds of the votes.’

Clarke feels the pride swell inside her, growing till it bursts into a loud, ‘HA!’ as she smacks Raven on the shoulder and breaks into an exuberant grin. 

‘Women can vote.’

‘Women can vote,’ Raven echoes jubilantly, head thrown back so her voice can carry over the crowd. They hug and whoop, stirring the women next to them to similar expressions of joy.

Much as Clarke wants to break away and find Lexa, she knows there’s little chance of it now and allows herself to be caught up in the celebration. After so many years fighting, they finally have something to show for it. 

\-------

Clarke’s turned her options round and round in her head till she can barely make heads or tails of them anymore. Contacting Lucius is out of the question, she has no way of knowing where he is or how to reach him. She can’t call Lexa either, but she does know where she lives. Lord Woolcott is obviously in town, but after today it might not matter anymore. She’s already declared her association to the suffragists rather blatantly. Clarke’s presence at her estate can hardly escalate things. 

It’s good enough, though whether the plan is really sound or she’s just high on their victory she couldn’t say. She hops on a tram as soon as she’s changed out of her uniform and drums anxiously on the seat as she nears Lexa’s posh neighborhood. No more waiting. 

Before she knows it, she’s climbing the steps to her house, willing herself not to hesitate when she sees the tall windows. Someone must’ve seen her already. There’s no turning back. Her finger punches the doorbell determinately, hands unconsciously returning to straighten her dress. Second time standing hopefully in front of Lexa’s door in as many days. Will the fates be kinder this time?

The door swings open and her heart sinks. It’s decidedly not Gustus. The graying man in an impeccable butler’s uniform eyes her suspiciously, offering her clothes a condescending once over. 

‘May I help you?’ he asks with a condescending raise of his eyebrows. His posh accent adds to the put-upon air he exudes.

‘I was hoping to speak to Lady Woolcott,’ Clarke replies, realizing she didn’t think to bring her usual drugs as an excuse. She’s definitely off her game today.

He scoffs in reply. ‘Lady Woolcott isn’t here.’

With that he seems to consider her visit concluded and moves to close the door. 

‘Wait,’ Clarke says, putting her hand up to keep the door from closing. 

He eyes the offending extremity disdainfully as if wishing to flick it from the door with his eyelids. 

‘Where…when can I find her in? It’s rather urgent.’ 

‘I’m sure it is,’ he replies in a tone that implies the opposite. ‘I’m afraid Lady Woolcott has left indefinitely.’ Though frankly he seems more pleased than afraid.

‘I see,’ Clarke replies, mind racing again. ‘Could you tell me where I can reach her.’

‘I’m not at liberty to divulge that information, Miss,’ he answers with an impatient huff, somehow making the title sound derogatory. ‘Please do not return here. Surely you understand that Lady Woolcott’s…friends,’ the word drips with contempt, ‘are no longer welcome here.’

And the door is shut firmly, leaving Clarke to stomach yet another dead end.

\-------

‘Wait,’ Lexa says as they turn onto the road that leads out of London. 

Gustus catches her eye in the mirror and pulls up to the curb.

She can’t leave. Not again. Not without seeing Clarke. Especially now that… _The pharmacy._ If Clarke is anywhere she knows of it’d be there. 

‘I want to make a stop first.’

Gustus eyes her, wordlessly reading her unspoken turmoil.

‘Is that wise, my lady? Surely you’ve given them enough to gossip about for one day. I recommend laying low for a while. We would hardly be inconspicuous.’ 

‘To be quite frank, Gustus, I hardly care,’ she replies, both resigned and determined. ‘I’m leaving town and have need of barbiturates so I will go to the pharmacy to obtain them.’

A pause.

‘I have to see her.’

It’s spoken quietly, whisper masking the quiver of desperation that would otherwise have cracked her voice.

Whatever Gustus hears in her tone is enough to convince him to turn the car around without further argument. 

Lexa chews her bottom lip as they wind through the late afternoon traffic. Does Clarke even want to see her? She could have the world, has now seen the world she can have. She wavers slightly, remembering all the arguments against pursuing her she’s been repeating to herself like mantras over the past years. But Clarke’s here now and suddenly they seem small and flimsy. Something’s different, something broke inside her at the look in Clarke’s eyes. Her resolve, she suspects.

All too soon Gustus is pulling to the side of the narrow street and motioning her to stay in the car while he assesses the situation. They’re already drawing a few curious glances from people chatting on doorsteps and children hurrying in from school. Luckily the cold discourages all but the bravest gawkers from staying too long.

‘There’s no one,’ Gustus says as he reclaims his seat behind the steering wheel. ‘There’s just a sign that says, ‘Out for Deliveries.’’

Lexa feels the hard lump of disappointment sink through her chest, reminiscent of a similar one years ago on this very doorstep. 

_‘No, Miss Griffin isn’t here. She’s in training to be a medic in the war. No, I’m sorry no word. How do you know each other? I would be happy to give you the address of the training facilities.’_

She swallows down the bitter taste left by the memory and turns back to the present. Of course Clarke isn’t here. She’s probably off somewhere celebrating with her friends, the people who belong in her life. She could wait, Clarke or the pharmacist are bound to return eventually. But her mind condemns the plan as ludicrous the moment it presents itself. It’s risky enough coming down here as Lexa, waiting for her indefinitely in a frigid vehicle? Well, that would be foolish beyond even what lovesickness could justify. 

_Lovesick._ She wants to slap herself. _You are a fool to feel such things, Lexa. Not in the world you live in, not with the life you’ve chosen._

She will telephone Clarke. Perhaps tomorrow. Perhaps a week from now. Perhaps when she’s found a way to stop the churning in her stomach once again.

\-------

‘Griffin! Where the devil’ve you been? I made some new friends at the Lion’s who insisted on treating me to a tableful of drinks to celebrate our victory. Without you there I was forced to imbibe them all myself in a rather unladylike fashion.’

Clarke feels her mouth twitch slightly at the image that accompanies Raven’s description, but her face is far too tired to turn it into a full smile. She moves wordlessly into the house, shivering from the hours spent pacing the streets, trying to make some sense of her situation. The family house where Raven rents a room is always spotless, if a little shabby, thanks to the persistent nagging of the proprietor. Raven picks up on her mood and motions her upstairs.

Her room is considerably less tidy than the sitting area. Raven has always been one of those people whose mind moves too quickly to bother much with keeping clutter in order. As long as everything is where she can find it, who cares how it looks. She seems to notice the mess afresh now that Clarke is here though, and hurriedly clears a chair by dumping its contents onto the already heaping pile on the trunk. Clarke sinks into it heavily. 

‘Well?’

Clarke doesn’t reply right away. She isn’t sure what to say, how much to tell. All she knows is that she’s tired and frustrated and sick of bearing it alone.

‘I can’t find her,’ she sighs, weary and resigned. 

‘Lady Woolcott.’ It’s more statement than question. 

Clarke nods, willing her voice to remain steady. 

‘After today I thought…I wanted too…’ She falters. There doesn’t seem to be any plausible explanation for her actions other than the truth. ‘She wasn’t at her house. The butler didn’t say where she’d gone, only hinted that she might not be coming back and I wasn’t to return.’

Oddly, Raven doesn’t ask why she needs to find her, only gives a sympathetic sound.

Clarke continues, encouraged by her understanding. ‘What if she’s in trouble? Her husband’s bound to seek some kind of retaliation. I just…I need to find her. I need to know ‘cause…’ she trails off lamely. Because I love her. Because it hasn’t felt like there’s a heart in my chest until I saw her again today. And now that I feel my heart again I want to rip it out to make the yearning stop.

‘Because she’s Lucius,’ Raven supplies simply.

Clarke is too shocked to hide it before Raven notices. 

‘How…?’

‘How did I know?’ Raven shrugs. ‘You called a noblewoman whom you’ve only seen a handful of times by a nickname no one’s ever heard of. Your voice when you spoke of her motives, it was proud, but with an intimate kind of pride, like you had some kind of insight into her actions. But what really confirmed it was the way you looked at her when she came out. I thought your longing would stop the world from spinning and slice through anyone standing between you too. I was this close from yelling for everyone to duck for cover.’

Clarke scoffs in self-deprecation. ‘Am I really that obvious?’

‘I have an uncanny sort of brilliance,’ Raven offers modestly. ‘I’ve also known you a long time and have only seen you like this with Lucius.’

Clarke’s not sure how to break the ensuing silence. It’s tense. She feels a strange, anxious fear grip her gut. Is this the part where Raven tells her she’s strange and unnatural? Where she reminds her that such a thing would be unlawful if women were respected enough to believe it possible?

But Raven breaks it herself. ‘You seemed…enraptured. That gooey kind of horseshit I vehemently shun. Does it feel as grossly glittery on the inside?’

Clarke looks up, surprised to find Raven is treating it as she would treat any kind of love, that is to say with aversion and mild disgust.

‘It did. Like honestly, Rae, the jittery, my-damn-face-is-broken-into-a-smile shit we used to mock.’

Raven grimaces sympathetically.

Clarke groans, rubbing her palms into her eye sockets.

‘Tell me I’m being a blockhead, Raven. Even if such things were possible, she has a life she’s unwilling to leave. 

‘I sent her a letter, you know? All but declaring my undying love before the war. She didn’t reply, just sent me a flower and some kind of coded poem which may well have been goodbye. She hasn’t told me where to contact her or how. She hasn’t tried to find me. Hasn’t left any word.’ 

Now that she finally has an audience the words come tumbling out in a jumble of relief at finally being able to speak of it.

‘She…even before the war, she’d given up on love, on happiness. Had decided to play the fucking martyr by dedicating her life to the cause of women and making whatever personal sacrifices necessary along the way. I guess I’m one of them,’ she surmises with a hollow laugh.

Raven is quiet for a moment. 

‘Does it feel that way? When you were with her, when you got her letter, when you saw her today, did it feel like she’d given you up?’

‘No,’ Clarke says quietly after a pause. 

Because it didn’t. It felt magnetic, like Lexa would reach out and pull her to her by sheer willpower alone. 

‘Then we’re going to find her and you’re going to ask her,’ she says, reaching for her coat.

‘I’ve already tried, Raven. There’s nowhere else to look.’

‘I know a place,’ she replies, and throws Clarke her coat with a look that brokers no argument.

\-------

It’s a rather swanky pub. The dark mahogany and leather furniture giving it a distinctly masculine air. Clarke isn’t sure whether they’ll actually be asked to leave or if the sour-faced waiter will rely on the unwelcome glares they’re being sent to discourage their lingering. 

Raven strides in undeterred, letting the discontented murmurs run off her as she scans the front room. A furrow in her brow and then she’s taking Clarke’s elbow and ushering her into the back. 

‘Who exactly are we looking for?’

‘He’s a commodore in the Air Force I’ve met on a few occasions, not half-bad for a noble and one of the few who treats women on their own merit, that is to say, no more disdainfully than he treats men. He may know something.’

Her eyes light up as she spots a figure in a corner booth and stalks over. 

Clarke freezes when she’s near enough to make out his features. Her brain fumbles through escape options, before she realizes he’s already rising to greet them with a smirk.

‘Reyes. Finally someone who can hold their liquor without turning into a buffoon.’ 

Then his smirk widens as his eyes fall on her. 

‘Clarke Griffin, as I live and breathe. You can’t imagine how pleased I am to see you, if only to demonstrate that, true to my word, I have uncovered the secret to your origins.’

‘Lord Albin,’ Clarke acknowledges, glaring at Raven for her apparent betrayal.

‘Roan, please,’ he says, waving the title away with a flick of his hand, ‘we’re all old friends here. Come,’ he gestures towards his table, ‘I must insist on buying a round of drinks to celebrate your victory.’

An odd proposal. But as much as she hates Raven for bringing her face to face with Roan again, she might be right. He may know something. She settles into the booth with the other two.

Once they’ve ordered and received their glasses he proposes a toast. ‘To suffrage, and foiling my mother yet again.’

‘To suffrage,’ they reply, though Clarke eyes him curiously at the strange toast.

‘Ah,’ he sighs, relishing the burn of scotch as he sips it neat. ‘I nearly thought my mother had you today, what with her rather desperate plan of ambushing Lord Kane.’

Clarke feels a chill at his words. ‘How do you mean?’

‘Well, Lord Kane’s London house is the outskirts and she simply arranged that his car be attacked by hooligans disguised as thieves.’

‘Is he alright?’ Clarke asks, remembering the attack on Lexa and how close she had come to being seriously injured.

‘Oh yes. They apparently had instructions not to lay hands on him. But they did commandeer his car and drive him around town for several hours, heaping on more and more ludicrous demands to keep him from paying his own ransom. Luckily, our old footman still thinks the telephone is a device into which one must yell to be heard on the other end, and I happened to be in the hall when he was confirming the time of the attack.’

‘You? But I thought you didn’t care for politics.’

Roan shrugs, ‘I don’t really. Unless they become shamefully ridiculous. This nonsense has gone on too long and if my mother has to resort to kidnapping her peers to keep us in the stone age then it’s time she’s stopped. I didn’t do much, mind you, just gave your boy Lucius a ring.’

Clarke suppresses the unexpected flutter at the mention of Lucius.

‘And?’

‘Well, it would appear he called his cousin because the next thing I hear she’s marched straight into the House of Lords and given them a lesson in politics.’ He shakes his head ruefully. ‘It almost made me wish I had my seat already. I can just imagine the shock on those pasty white faces at being addressed so by a woman. I doubt they will ever recover.’

Clarke smirks at this despite herself.

‘My mother was right about her.’

‘About who?’ Clarke asks, knowing all too well.

‘Alexandra. She always suspected she wasn’t like the others, even though she’s done nothing to contradict her husband in the past.’ He laughs. ‘I wonder if knowing she was right will be some comfort in her defeat. I’ll have to ask her.’

Clarke sips her drink trying to buy time, not wanting the conversation to drift away from Lexa but unsure how to proceed.

‘Well, I’ll wager her husband’s none too pleased. Wonder what kind of hornets’ nest it’ll stir up at home,’ Raven comments casually.

Clarke could kiss her.

Roan scoffs again. ‘Oh I don’t wonder. I was provided with a rather more detailed description of their affairs at tea than I would’ve liked. To hear her their old footman tell it, which my mother has had in her pocket for some time, she’s been sent back to their manor post-haste to avoid her spreading her side of the story. Though I can already see her becoming somewhat of a legend. She did always have a bit of a flair to her.’

Clarke can’t hold back her smile because yes, Lexa does have a rather grandiose way of moving through life.

‘And where is this grand palace of exile?’ Raven asks, tone light and gossipy. 

Roan looks at Clarke instead and takes another sip of his drink. Clarke could be mistaken, but she could swear she catches a strange gleam in his eye. But the moment passes and he turns back to Raven with the casual nonchalance he’s known for.

‘It’s not too far, a mile or two from Kemble if I remember correctly. The shooting’s not too bad, much like anywhere in Cotswolds really. But they do have exceptional riding trails. Polsworth. A rather odd name to wrap your mouth around.’

Clarke hides her smile, not caring one bit what the name sounds like. It feels like hope, like for the first time in years she actually has some say in things, some power in making their meeting happen.

‘Come on then,’ she says motioning for the waiter. ‘This is a celebration, isn’t it? And Raven’s not the only one who can hold her liquor.’

Roan smirks again. ‘I always knew you were a woman of many talents, Clarke.’

\-------

The frosty air might be the one thing keeping Clarke’s throbbing head from giving her stomach orders to upend its contents. The train ride was a jostling battle of wills waged in her esophagus and she only barely emerged victorious thanks to the cold press of the window pane. She hadn’t drunk that much in…well, ever. It felt good, though. Being back. No threat of death or patients bleeding out. A solid plan for finding Lexa. Roan and Raven proved to be excellent company with their acerbic wit and running mockery of the other patrons, and Clarke felt lighter than she had in years. 

But now, trudging down the snowy road that was pointed out when she asked for Polsworth, she’s almost thankful for the remnants of her hangover which provide a distraction to the growing apprehension. Raven offered to come with her, but Clarke firmly turned her down. It would be shock enough for Lexa to find her on her doorstep without the company of a friend she never officially met. Besides, Clarke wants privacy. She’s tired of her interactions with Lexa being ruled and regulated by third parties. She wants to be alone with her, now more than ever, to know where she stands when it’s just the two of them.

Two miles seem like nothing and before she’s quite finished running through her opening lines (and excuses, she thought of those too to explain her presence if Lexa isn’t there) she’s gazing out on a carefully manicured park on which stands the formidable Woolcott estate. 

It does seem more Lexa than the city house, Clarke reflects and she crosses the lawn, stately, impressive, but solitary too. And a little mysterious, a little untamed. Clarke admires the stone walls that somehow seem right at home here. If it weren’t for the car at the front she could easily imagine herself back in Thornfield Hall and half expects Mr. Rochester’s mangy dog to attack her at any moment. 

Instead she makes it safely to the front steps dog-free and rings the bell. The ring is loud and echoing through the halls. She composes herself, greetings ready at the tip of her tongue. One for Gustus, (Essentially, is Lexa here?), one for an unknown butler or footman (I’m here to see Lady Woolcott. I have an urgent message from Lord Kane that I am charged with placing directly in her hands), and one for Lexa (Hi. Ok admittedly it isn’t much. But it’s all she has for now).

What she isn’t expecting is the door being opened by a tall woman who raises an imperious eyebrow at her. She’s stunning, radiating a combination of masculine and feminine energies worthy of an Amazon warrior, or a goddess. Yes, Clarke is leaning more towards goddess, what with her Grecian cheekbones and almond-shaped eyes. Artemis, goddess of the hunt. Dressed in cream-colored riding pants, high black boots and a flowing coat. Formidable. Predatory. Magnificent. 

Then she realizes she’s being spoken to.

‘…come here for any particular reason or merely to adorn the doorway?’ she asks, lips curled in amused derision at Clarke’s silence.

‘I’ve come to see Lady Woolcott. I have an urgent message for her.’

Her eyes narrow immediately at the mention of Lexa. Suspicious. Protective. Clarke feels an unpleasant pang in her chest. 

‘And who, might I ask, is delivering this urgent message?’

‘My name is…’

‘Clarke.’

Clarke feels a sob rush to her throat at the sound of her name. The whispered ‘c’, flicked ‘l’, exhaled ‘ar’, culminating in the firm click of the final ‘k’. Only one person ever said it like that, like a secret incantation; a little awed, intimate. It feels like a dream, a phantom caress, sending a wave of memories crashing inside her.

She bites her lip and turns toward the voice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Ducks for cover* Alright, Alright, so I can ex- *dodges flying vegetable* -plain.
> 
> I'm really not trying to create angst for angst's sake. This is just how the story played out in my mind and I didn't want to rush it. 
> 
> I am, however, more reader than writer, and as such well acquainted with the feeling of being deprived while facing the agony of waiting another week. Therefore, I have spent the week furiously writing--to the neglect of pets, plants, and vitamin D--in the hopes that I can post the next chapter tomorrow so you won't have to wait too long. I'm close so fingers crossed, me hearties.


	25. Chapter 25

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Revelations galore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let it not be said that I don't spoil you.

‘Clarke.’

It’s barely more than a whisper, as if speaking her name too loudly might break whatever spell brought Clarke to her doorstep. 

Clarke catches a glimpse of her over the taller woman’s shoulder. Lexa’s eyes are fixed on her; shimmering forest green. She’d forgotten the intensity of her gaze, how she drinks you in with her eyes, how you want her to.

‘Ah, Clarke Griffin, I presume.’

Clarke hears the smirk before she turns to see it. But it doesn’t reach the woman’s hawk-like eyes which both widen slightly in recognition and grow impossibly warier. 

‘I suppose you’d better come in then.’

Just like that. No question as to Clarke’s business ringing the doorbell of Lexa’s country home. How much does she know?

She steps aside and Clarke enters the hall, feeling rather than seeing its high ceiling and wide dimensions. Her eyes are fixed on Lexa. She’s dressed for ridding too, dark pants and boots, deep crimson shirt only slightly visible under her open coat. She traces her features, matching them to her memory, reveling in the feeling of actually standing before her. 

She hasn’t changed, not obviously. Her face though, it’s slightly more drawn, cheekbones more pronounced, the hollows in her neck more visible. Clarke yearns to touch, to place her lips to every dip and contour. Her eyes are more tired too, a little sunken in their sockets. No less mesmerizing.

She doesn’t realize she’s been staring stupidly until a fourth person enters the room, voice pulling Lexa’s eyes from her. 

‘I’m ready, mother. The boots fit perfectly. I’ve helped Maya into hers as well.’

Lexa jolts slightly as if she too has been woken from a reverie. Clarke turns with her to find a fair-haired boy of eight or nine. Her first thought is that she’s addressing the woman at the door behind her, but his dark eyes are fixed adoringly on Lexa.

‘That’s splendid, Aden.’ 

She smiles. One of her rare, real smiles. Her voice is doting too, soft and filled with pride. 

‘But we have a guest. Clarke, this is Aden. Aden, Clarke.’

The boy steps confidently forward and takes her hand.

‘It’s a pleasure to meet you, Clarke.’

‘Likewise,’ she barely manages to utter, still trying to wrap her head around his existence. 

Lexa said they’d never…But then Lincoln said she opened her house to orphans. Is this one of them? Seems doubtful. His stature and mannerisms belie a life of privilege, not hardship. And there is something about his poise, his easy self-possession and calm, keen eyes that’s so essentially _Lexa_. Clarke feels something twist inside her.

‘Alright, scamp, I’m afraid it’ll be just us today. Your mother’s got to keep our guest company.’

His eyes go to Lexa, brimming with a disappointment.

‘But mother’s the best rider in the county. She was going to teach me a new galloping technique.

The blond woman scoffs. ‘Where’d you hear that, Aden? We need to quell these ghastly rumors before anyone actually believes them.’

‘Truth will triumph, Anya, no matter the strength of your envy,’ Lexa lectures with only the slightest lilt of a tease. 

It draws a withering look from Anya and a wide smirk from Aden. 

Clarke feels the twist tighten. They seem so close, so _domestic_. She eyes the woman critically, _Anya_ was it? She exudes Lexa’s class with a careless fearlessness that’s all her own. She can see how…

‘Go along, Aden. Surely there’s still a thing or two to be learned from Anya. We can start practicing jumps tomorrow.’

His eyes light up at the thought and Lexa brushes his hair lightly from his forehead, more as reason to touch him than anything else. 

‘Come on then,’ Anya calls. ‘Tris is finally getting on her own horse today and if we take too long I’m worried she may lose her nerve and insist on riding with me again. If this keeps up we may just have to let your sister ride solo instead. That thing is fearless.’

Aden laughs and they move down the hall and out the back.

Lexa turns to Clarke who is still standing silently by the door trying to make sense of the scene she walked into.

‘You look well,’ she says almost shyly, and Clarke feels strangled by too many emotions to reply. Confusion, longing, anger.

‘Here, let me take your coat. You must be cold if you walked from the village.’

 _How is she so damn calm?_

Clarke takes it off and hands it to her, trying to ignore the shiver that runs from the tip of her fingers where they brush Lexa’s, through the length of her body. She feels the touch long after Lexa has turned to pass the coat to one of the servants and ask that tea be brought through to the parlor. She then motions for Clarke to follow and begins ascending the stairs. Clarke tries to get control of her thudding heartbeat, wonders at Lexa’s control. 

‘We can speak here undisturbed,’ she says, shutting the door behind them. 

Clarke declines her offer to sit.

‘I don’t think I can,’ Clarke says at last, hating the croak in her voice. 

Lexa nods in understanding. She seems to be willing herself to stand still and Clarke notices the slight tremor in her hand as it grips the side of her coat. The air hangs heavy between them. Charged. Uncertain.

‘So, you have children,’ Clarke blurts, larynx suddenly working again, although at the expense of a filter it would seem. It’s an awkward way to start a conversation, but Clarke can’t think of anything else.

Lexa nods. ‘Yes.’

Clarke raises a questioning eyebrow and waits.

‘That is, they are mine in all but biology. But they couldn’t be more mine,’ she hastens to add.

There’s that fiery determination in her eyes when she says it, the passion Clarke knows all too well, has come to associate with the things Lexa would die for. She used to see it…

Lexa sighs, leans slightly against the couch.

‘I’ve told you of my husband’s…shenanigans. One day, about nine years ago now, a woman came to our doorstep with an infant claiming it was his. She was at wit’s end, saying there was no way she could bring the child home, that her parents would cast her out. He wanted nothing to do with her, what did he care for her bastard? Threatened to have her sent to the poorhouse if she didn’t leave. But I stopped him. I couldn’t bear the thought of the child adrift in the world, rejected by both his parents. We would have no children of our own, it was only logical that we take the child in, pass him off as mine. No one would ask questions. He relented, but has never quite been a father to him.

‘Maya arrived later, almost four years ago. You might remember one day I was called back unexpectedly. Her mother was not as thoughtful, or perhaps not as brave. She just left her in a pile of rags on the doorstep. She was malnourished and a pale bluish color when she was found. We didn’t know if she would survive those first few months. She caught an infection in her lungs. I got the call that day, the day of the last Bill. Before the war. The doctor said she might not live through the night. I had to…’ 

Her voice trails off. What was she going to say? _I had to leave you?_

Clarke is silent, as the memories of that time rush through her, now cast in a new lift. She tries to merge these new revelations with her own timeline of events.

‘That’s why you wouldn’t declare your support for the women’s vote publicly.’

Lexa nods. ‘Divorce laws are very clear. The father gets sole custody. No questions, no consideration for the children’s well-being. He never loved them, but would keep them from me just to spite me, ship them off to some relative or boarding school. I couldn’t…the thought of abandoning them to him. I couldn’t bear it, no matter how much I wanted to stand by you publicly.’

Clarke nods, feels her stomach tighten. No wonder Lexa was so adamant despite the conflict she had seen swimming in her eyes. Lexa, who’d lost both parents and been left alone in the world, would never risk her children’s well-being.

‘How did you manage these last years? Lincoln told me you joined the Royal Navy to work in codebreaking.’ 

It’s easier to focus on practical details, to keep asking the mundane questions, to keep herself from having to make sense of how she feels, how she hasn’t stopped trembling since they entered the room, how her fingers threaten to close the space and touch her, if only to be sure she’s really there. 

‘Anya,’ she replies simply. 

Clarke’s brow furrows slightly, the unpleasant pang returning to her stomach. She doesn’t need a lot of help deciphering how she feels about that. 

‘She lives nearby with her father and is happy to care for them when I am away. She’s had as much sway in their upbringing as I have. Gustus is my lieutenant in the Navy, he covers for my absence at times. It isn’t too far and I can drive to the base in a little over an hour if there is an emergency.’

Always the pragmatist. Of course she’s found a way to make it all work.

‘But yesterday,’ Clarke says, voice slightly awed as she recalls the sight of Lexa emerging victorious from the House of Lords. ‘Having the vote doesn’t change divorce laws. How…you don’t seem ready to lose them.’

‘Ah,’ Lexa says, a little quirk of triumph playing at her mouth, ‘now the tables have turned slightly.’

\-------

It was mostly unheard of for noblewomen to pack their own things. Then again, it was mostly unheard of for noblewomen to dress themselves in three-piece suits or march into the House of Lords and give speeches, so Lexa was hardly bothered by the baffled look Mary shot her as she hastily bundled her most important books and papers into a trunk. She simply motioned for her lady’s maid to hurry upstairs and pack whatever she could from her wardrobe. 

She needed to get it down to the car before he arrived. There was no telling what might happen when…

‘Alexandra!’

His voice thundering through the entrance told Lexa all she needed to know. He never made a show of their disagreements, always keeping up appearances even in front of the help. Which means he had to be livid. 

She didn’t go to him, would not be summoned, continuing instead to calmly place her books into the box while he stomped up the stairs. 

‘Get out,’ he bellowed at Gustus who was just reaching to pick up the trunk Lexa had filled. 

The burly man took his time, slowly lifting the trunk, shifting to balance it firmly on his shoulder before heading for the door. He made certain to walk closer to Theodore than necessary, fixing him with a cold stare as he passed. Lexa felt a renewed wave of affection for her friend.

‘How dare you?’ he growled, moving to loom over her. 

Lexa stands slowly, squaring her shoulders to look him full in the face.

‘Excuse me?’

‘How fucking dare you? After all I’ve done for you, all I’ve given you. The nerve to defy me in front of my peers.’

Lexa scoffed slightly. ‘Don’t pretend this arrangement hasn’t been mutually beneficial. I gave you the class and image you so desperately lacked, along with the freedom to do as you pleased.’

‘Image?’ he yelled, bringing his fist down on the table in front of her. ‘What fucking image did you present today when you walked in there and disgraced me? You made me look the fool, impotent, unable to control even my own wife. Why I oughta…’

He advanced, quivering with rage, fists balled as if to strike. Lexa shifted her weight slightly to the front of her feet.

‘You ought to what?’ she asked, low and deadly, taking a step towards him so that her face was aligned with his. ‘You think you can strike me? At your own risk, Theodore.’

He startled, eyes flicking nervously, searching for a glimmer of weakness in hers. Finding none he stepped back slightly, trying to hide just how cowed he is.

‘You’ll pay for this,’ he snarled. ‘Don’t think you haven’t just handed me every right to divorce you while keeping my name intact. And those little bastards you like to pretend are yours? You’ll never set eyes on them again.’

‘Don’t you ever call them that,’ she growled dangerously. ‘They are not to blame for the circumstances of their birth. And I think you’ll find you won’t be divorcing me until I say so.’

His eyes flashed to hers, catching the triumph in her voice. It’s more than a bluff.

‘What the devil are you talking about?’

‘December 3rd, 1917. A train carrying supplies to a temporary shelter was derailed. German bombs were blamed. But a message intercepted on December 5th stated that no German forces had been involved, and they were looking for possible British soldiers who were behind the attack and could be recruited as inside men. An investigation was quietly launched, and it was discovered that greed, not treachery, was behind the attack. Prices go up when commodities are scarce.’

Lexa paused, finding the flicker of fear she looked for in his eyes.

‘For some reason, orders were given to bury the investigation, and with so many other things going on, spies to thwart and leads to pursue, it was given little thought. But something didn’t sit right with Lt. Col. Lucius Wood, and he continued to examine the matter privately. Imagine his surprise when the orders were traced back to you.’

Lord Woolcott swallowed then, sweat beading on his forehead.

‘You have no proof.’

‘Don’t I?’ Lexa asked with a challenging raise of her eyebrow. ‘It seems you were stupid enough to give the order in writing, a letter Lucius persuaded the foreman you hired to provide him with. That writing can be matched to yours, which, along with the foreman’s incriminating testimony, could have serious repercussions for you, _my lord_. You see, a title cannot protect you from everything.’

Lexa eyed him steadily, not daring to blink. It was somewhat of a bluff. While she was certain of his guilt, the letter had only been partially recovered, and not the most incriminating bit. She also doubted the foreman would ever have the nerve to testify against a Lord. But she was banking heavily on one thing: Theodore Woolcott was a coward.

‘What do you want?’ he hissed.

‘It’s simple really. When Lucius informed me that you were behind the attack I took it upon myself to offer aid to the families affected. You will continue to do so until such a time as they no longer need it. We will not be getting divorced, either, though I no longer think I can stomach sharing a roof with a parasite who would leech off his countrymen when brave men and women are risking their lives to preserve his empire. I will remain with the children at Polsworth and you can stay here.’

‘You’re banning me from my own house? What about hunting season?’

Lexa wanted to scoff at his sense of priorities. Shooting birds naturally came before the desire to be part of his children’s lives.

‘I couldn’t care less where you hunt,’ she replied coldly, ‘so long as it’s not anywhere near us.’

He scowled, wagged his finger angrily at her. ‘I knew you were no good. Insubordinate. Foul schemer and suffragette. They warned me about you, said I shouldn’t marry you. It was too easy.’

Lexa’s calm demeanor made his outburst look almost comical.

‘I daresay you’ve gotten more than your fair share out of the last ten years of marriage,’ she countered. ‘And I may well have saved your image today. At least you won’t go down in history as the backwards idiot who tried to delay progress.’

His face shook with fury and he took a threatening step towards her again, but Lexa continued unfazed.

‘I have no more desire for a scandal than you do. Let us go our separate ways and live out our lives as we see fit.’

‘You haven’t heard the last of this,’ he snarled. ‘Run away and hide in the country with your fake children. But mark my words, I will have my revenge.’

And with that he stormed out, leaving Lexa to finish the packing in peace.

\-------

‘So we should be alright for now. I was hoping to wait a while longer, but with Nia’s attack on Marcus I needed to move fast. I’ll have to keep working for women’s rights regarding custody, but I don’t think he will take the children from me before then. When he calms down, he’ll realize they’d just be a nuisance to him.’

She watches Clarke carefully when she finishes speaking. She’s quiet, mouth working, chewing on the inside of her cheek, brows furrowed in thought in that all-too-familiar way that pulls at her gut. She feels her heart racing. There it is. Her life laid bare before Clarke. No more secrets.

_Say something. Please._

‘Well you seem to have it all figured out,’ she says at last. It’s a little chilly.

Lexa inclines her head slightly, feeling the distance grow between them again. Why is it so hard to reach out to her? Goddess, she’s thought of this for years. There’s been so much space between them all she’s wanted to do was banish it the second they were close enough, press her body flush against Clarke’s, feel her everywhere again. 

But now although there might be less space, it’s denser, all the years apart condensed into a few feet of distance.

‘Why didn’t you tell me? About the kids.’ 

Her voice is even, but there’s a slight quaver below the surface. Anger? Hurt?

‘You could have told me, Lexa. There were plenty of opportunities. I could’ve helped. At least I would’ve known what the hell was going on.’

Lexa is silent, unsure how words can explain why, why this was her choice, her cross to bear, not something she could ask anyone else to take on. Alone. Resilient. That’s the life she’d chosen.

‘Don’t you trust me?’

Lexa hates the way her voice cracks, the hurt she hears in it.

‘I do trust you, Clarke.’ She’s almost pleading, willing her to understand.

‘Then why? Why did you shut me out? It’s been years, Lexa. Why not write to me or tell me how to write you?’ 

The air is thinner now, but staticky with pent up anger. 

‘I…you just left. Without a word,’ she says quietly. She didn’t realize how much it’s been hurting her until she says it out loud.

‘I didn’t. I left you a letter. Didn’t you try the pharmacy?’

‘Of course.’ Lexa sighs exasperated, feeling her own voice falter with the need to make Clarke understand just how much she tried. ‘As soon as Maya was well. They told me where you’d gone, but there was nothing.’

Clarke’s forehead wrinkles in puzzlement. Then realization slowly widens her features. 

‘Bellamy,’ she says bitterly. ‘He must’ve taken it. He’s always had these stupid notions of protecting me.’

Lexa sighs, feeling the throbbing ache of ‘what if’. How many sleepless nights had she wondered why Clarke would leave, turning it over and over in her head, trying to rationalize it, to accept it, to act accordingly. If Clarke left her a letter…

‘But you could’ve written,’ Clarke persists. ‘You knew where I was. Do you have any idea how it felt? Wanting to talk to you but not being able to? Not knowing how or where you were?’

Lexa swallows. Jaw working intensely. She hates thinking of Clarke like that, waiting for a reply to the letter that was never delivered. If she’d known…

She could tell her that it was risky, that personal correspondence was strictly prohibited once they were assigned to codebreaking, that with Gustus away with her she had no way of knowing her correspondence at home wasn’t being checked. She could explain that Clarke’s letters would probably have been opened too. But she doesn’t.

They all sound hollow, petty excuses that may have been surpassed with enough willpower and ingenuity. The truth is…

‘You said…you said you couldn’t just watch me sacrifice myself for a ruse. And I realized you were right. I chose this. I chose my life, my marriage, my position, all as a means to an end. I weighed up the cost and chose them. I even chose my children. 

But you, you didn’t choose any of it. You just kind of fell into my world without knowing what you were getting into; the consequences, the risks, the limitations. That day when you came to ask me to speak before the House of Commons I was juggling Nia and the Bill and Anya’s calls about Maya, and I realized you didn’t deserve any of that. You deserved a full life. This weight was mine alone to bear.’

‘So you decided to just abandon me? Have you any idea how empty my life has been for want of you?’

‘I didn’t abandon you,’ Lexa replies earnestly, taking a step forward. ‘I gave Lincoln a letter for you. Did you get that?’

Clarke nods wordlessly.

‘I wanted you to know that no matter what, I was thinking of you, that’d I’d always think of you. I asked Indra to watch out for you. She swore she would guard you with her life.’

‘Wait, you know Indra?’

Lexa nods. ‘She was an old friend of my parents’, taught me and Anya all we know about combat and riding and a million other things. She’d trained suffragists in defense tactics in the past, and I asked her if she would go with you since I…since I couldn’t.’

Lexa feels the squeeze in her chest at the pained blankness on Clarke’s face. She needs her to know, to understand that she couldn’t possibly abandon her, that she thought only of her.

‘I didn’t want to drag you into my problems. Our feelings, that is my feelings, I don’t presume to know what you felt…What I mean is, when there are feelings involved sometimes we put ourselves into positions we later regret. I didn’t…I didn’t want you to be burdened with my choices just because you may have cared for me. I had nothing to offer you but secrets and stolen moments.’

Clarke swallows, turns her head sharply away to study a pattern on the wall. Lexa clenches her fist, takes a shuddering breath and presses on.

‘I…I did succumb, once. In Paris. I tried to see you.’

Clarke’s head snaps back to her at this.

‘Codebreaking often overlaps with counter-espionage. There was a French spy passing pretty high-up information to the Germans, whom after a number of intercepted messages we believed to be a woman. She worked as a courtesan and so was privy to a fair amount of information.’

Lexa knows she’s stalling, but it feels safer. A neutral topic. Clarke is still here, still listening. She really just wants to make that last.

‘They had been trying to catch her for months to no avail. Apparently men are incapable of thinking like women and therefore apprehending them. There was far too much information being leaked. Eventually I decided to go over myself and put an end to the matter. As it happens, we were able to catch her, but I got a bit of a scratch in the scuffle, and the woman’s hospital was the logical choice.’

‘When was this?’ Clarke asks, in a voice that tells her she already knows the end.

‘March, 1916.’ 

Clarke scoffs. ‘I was at Wimmereux.’

‘You were,’ Lexa confirms, ‘though the other nurses and doctors seemed rather in awe of you after the incident with the grenade.’

There’s a flicker of something in her eyes at the mention. Pride? Pain? 

She bites her lip, looks away again. Silence fills the room. 

_Say something._ Lexa wills her to speak, though she’s not sure what she wants to hear.

‘I was trying to protect you, Clarke,’ she says softly, taking another tentative step forward.

Something in Clarke snaps at this and she turns suddenly, rounding on Lexa.

‘Oh really? Well that’s just fucking magnanimous of you, isn’t it, Lexa?’

Lexa stops dead, feeling as if she was struck.

‘You know, after all your big crusades, all your damn noble ideals about the rise of woman and giving them the right to choose, to act of their own accord, you turned around and took that from me.’

Lexa cringes. _No, she didn’t mean…that’s not what…_

‘Don’t you think I deserved to know? To have a say in what I did or did not want to be part of?’

She steps closer now, body radiating anger.

‘Don’t you think I fucking deserved the facts, Lexa? Don’t you think I had the right to decide if you…if we were worth the risk?’

Lexa can feel her shimmering tension, feel her own body tense at their proximity, the swoop in her stomach that is entirely inappropriate considering the circumstances.

‘Don’t you think I needed to know how you felt? That your absence of communication wouldn’t change the fact that I thought about you every fucking day, that I drove myself half mad trying to think of a reason why?’

Lexa bites her lip, hating the hurt in Clarke’s eyes, the betrayal. 

Honestly, she hadn’t considered it. She knew she would suffer, that Clarke would be engraved in her to the end of her days. But she could live with that. She thought Clarke would be ok. Better, happier. She thought…

‘I never meant to…I didn’t think you cared this much.’

‘God, Lexa,’ Clarke sighs in exasperation, raising her head up as she takes a few frustrated paces back.

Lexa wants to reach out, pull her to her, press all the regret and longing and love she’s been holding inside her into a hug. Let her feel everything that’s too messy to say. Clarke might shrug her off, hell she might punch her in the face. Lexa doesn’t care. Caution be damned. 

She steps forward, determination coursing through her. It’s now or never.

Or maybe something in between.

The door thuds open and Maya scampers in, oblivious to the tension she just walked in on. How long have they been here?

‘Mommy, Tris fell from her horse.’

Lexa inhales, willing the churning in her gut to settle as she turns to her daughter.

‘Did she now?’ she asks, careful to show the right amount of curiosity.

‘Yep, landed right in the snow. Aden said it was better than the mud, but she threwed a snowball at him and almost knocked him from his horse too.’

Her account is gleeful as she revels in the importance of conveying such news.

‘That sounds terribly exciting, darling,’ Lexa replies. ‘You’ll have to tell me all about it at tea.’

She tries to glimpse Clarke out of the corner of her eye, tries to gauge her reaction. She’s turned slightly, face hardened into a mask.

‘Who’s that?’ Maya asks with the frustrating honestly of children. 

‘This is Clarke,’ Lexa replies, ‘a very dear friend of mine.’

‘Is she staying for tea?’

‘I don’t know. Shall we ask her?’

Maya nods eagerly, thrilled to be part of the secretive decision-making committee. 

‘Clarke, would you like to stay for tea?’ 

The question is neutral enough with Maya there, but her eyes search out the pained blue ones pleading silently. She hopes she can see just how much she wants her to stay, needs her to say.

Clarke exhales, seems to consider the invitation carefully.

‘I can drive you back to the station to catch the late train afterwards,’ Lexa offers. No, it’s not bordering on desperate. It’s the only civil thing to do.

‘I’d love to,’ Clarke says, resigned. 

Lexa smiles, relief bordering on temporary elation.

Clarke’s lips twitch slightly in response, shaking her head as if to indicate that Lexa’s reaction is properly ridiculous and she’s still very much upset. 

Lexa just takes Maya’s hand and waits for Clarke to follow. 

‘What do you think, Maya? Shall we have the lemon pie now that Clarke is here?’

The little girl’s eyes go wide with pleasure. 

‘Can we start with dessert?’

Lexa laughs indulgently. ‘What and have Clarke think we’re barbarians? What an idea!’

Maya giggles in response.


	26. Chapter 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I'm late and this chapter is a mess. Full disclosure, I'm only posting 'cause I've given up on it and want it out of my sight. 
> 
> An extra special thank you with gay strawberries to @lapizsilkwood who's been especially patient this week and without whom this would be a lot worse.

Anger is a strange phenomenon. It’s often described as raging, fiery, a rabid beast that needs to act, to shout, to break things. But that’s only the first stage. When the initial outrage is over and you’re left exhausted and empty in its aftermath, anger is cold. It’s disassociated and numb, paralyzing; the mind’s attempt to freeze out what hurt you, a desperate bid for survival before the elevated cortisol literally makes your heart explode.

But this illusion of calm still takes up so much space. The mind works double-time to convince you that you’re ok, that if you push the seething mess a little further down it’ll go away eventually. A cumbersome impression of composure that saps your energy. Then there are the little flares, a thought or word or sight that cut through the façade and make you want to lash out all over again. 

Clarke is entangled in this internal battle as she follows Lexa through the house, barely registering as they walk past the grand dining hall and into a smaller sitting room furnished with a six-person table. Tea is laid out already and she takes the cup offered her if only to have somewhere to look while her thoughts churn.

She’s only vaguely aware of the rest of the table’s occupants; the children eagerly recounting the adventures of the day as Anya rolls her eyes at them and occasionally interjects a lazy correction when their exaggerations go a bit too far. Lexa listens attentively as she helps Maya pour her tea, smiling at their antics and asking questions to draw out more details. 

The normalcy jars Clarke, aggravates her already frayed nerves. She feels out of touch, a tempest raging in a jar while the world carries on peacefully around her. 

She watches Lexa out of the corner of her eye. She would never have imagined it, but she can’t deny that motherhood suits her. She seems to slip into the role as effortlessly as she does that of Lady Woolcott or Lucius, except it lacks the stiff airs she reserves for her public personas. There’s more of Lexa in this one, soft, genuine, relaxed. She likes how she doesn’t talk down to them, treating them like props or lesser beings, but shows real interest in their thoughts and engages them intelligently. No wonder they look at her like she owns the world. Like Clarke once…

Clarke snaps her eyes back to her food, hating herself for the realization, for the warmth that creeps through her every time Lexa’s eyes find hers across the table. She feels a flash of anger again, stubbornly clings to it over the warmth, over the mad, sadistic hope that Lexa will do something to fix it. Anger feels like her only power right now. 

Especially when she feels Anya’s sharp gaze on her. It’s cold, even more calculating than Lexa’s, or at least, more calculating than any way Lexa’s ever looked at Clarke. It’s like she’s dissecting Clarke, piece by piece, examining the scraps with her permanent air of condescension. Clarke wonders how much of herself can be seen, the stories evident in where she studiously doesn’t look. She glares back, feeling defenseless, exposed, still raw after her fight with Lexa.

Clarke can feel her possessiveness too, a protective aura that silently dares Clarke to try and hurt anyone at this table just so she can have the pleasure of crushing her. This while smirking intimately at Lexa and doting on the children in her own brusque manner.

Clarke looks away quickly. She doesn’t want to hate that Lexa found a protector. She doesn’t want to care. After what the woman’s been through and with her penchant of putting herself on the line with little regard for her safety, she needs it. Perhaps more than anyone. And by all indications, Anya is loyal, intelligent, gorgeous; strength and class in one stunning package. Lexa deserves that, doesn’t she? 

But her stomach twists harder and whatever cake she’s trying to eat tastes bitter in her mouth. She could’ve been that. Goddess, she would’ve done anything for her. The years spent pining over her have made that abundantly clear. But Lexa didn’t know. _I can’t just watch you sacrifice any chance of the life you could have, condemned to live in fear for some ruse that may not even be the most effective strategy._

The words haunt her. She didn’t mean she wouldn’t stand by her, only that Lexa deserved better than the husk of a life she had resigned herself to. But Lexa…Lexa actually thought she wouldn’t feel her absence, that she could just move on. She didn’t ever give her the chance.

Clarke’s fists clench at the thought.

She definitely doesn’t want to dwell on the confused pain in Lexa’s eyes when she realized how much Clarke had suffered, doesn’t want to think about how it was her stupid selflessness, with a little help from Bellamy Blake, that plunged them both into this mess, doesn’t want to consider how hurt she might have been when Clarke left without a word after what she could only have seen as a crushing defeat. No, Clarke shoves those thoughts down because she doesn’t want to understand her, doesn’t want to let go of her anger. She’s afraid of the powerlessness that would follow.

She wants to leave, throw her chair back and barge through the door and never return. But the thought of leaving now when this might be the last time she sees her is unbearable. It feels like the sharp, twisting battle in her gut would finish her if she did. 

Torture to stay, death to leave. A fine plethora of options. 

She wills her thoughts silent as she tries to focus on the others at the table. She’s buried her feelings for years after all, what’s one more meal. Tris is gazing at Anya the way the other two look at Lexa, drinking in her every word as Anya launches into a story of how she and Lexa once played a prank on Lincoln when they were kids. 

Tris is the last of the orphans, the others having been claimed by relatives or parents returning from the war. She’s a scrappy child no older than 10 or 11, the kind that who still look disheveled when they’re clean and well-dressed, wild braids attesting to her nature. But her eyes already possess the reticent intensity familiar to those who have seen too much.

‘…and Lincoln didn’t speak to us for a full month after that. He’s still overly-protective of his trousers whenever I walk past. You watch him next time he comes.’

Tris cracks a smile at the idea of her idol’s past antics and Aden and Maya both turn to Lexa for confirmation on the veracity of Anya’s tale. When Lexa gives them a slight nod their eyes go wide and they smile slyly as they assimilate ‘Lexa the Prankster’ into their concept of their mother.

‘If I remember correctly, Clarke also got up to some rather creative mischief as a child.’

Clarke starts at being addressed, only to realize she hasn’t said a word since they sat down other than a few muttered ‘thank yous’ as the food was passed to her. She looks up at Lexa, locking onto emerald eyes that are looking at her with a once-familiar softness that squeezes in her chest and presses out against her ribs. She pulls her gaze away when the intensity threatens to suck her in. 

That can’t be right. Her eyes are filled with longing, awash with a multitude of unspoken, unspeakable things. But Lexa left her. Lexa destroyed them. She clings to the anger that stirs, biting her lip to quell the yearning hope inside her before replying. 

‘We did build a catapult once to keep the opposing forces at bay.’

The children’s eyes twinkle in response, and Clarke finds herself dragged into telling of how she and Octavia, tired of Bellamy and his posse’s wrecking of their fort, built a catapult from scraps of wood they’d foraged and an old rubber bike tire. After being beaten back for a week, Bellamy’s gang convinced him to recognize their superiority and form an alliance, mainly so they could also take turns at the catapult. 

It’s hard not to get carried away in the details as the children respond with appropriate ‘oohs’, ‘aahs’ and an incredulous gasp when she provides a graphic description of tomato meets Bellamy’s face. She finds herself welcoming the temporary reprieve from her thoughts as she relaxes into the narrative, teasing them with somewhat dramatic retellings of their skirmishes. 

She still won’t look at Lexa, purposely focusing on the three children who had no part in her schemes. Anya asks a few questions on the robustness of the device and how they managed to keep the pieces together, to which Clarke grudgingly admits to daily repairs and brazen bluffs when it was temporarily out of order. Blatantly ignoring her would’ve been too rude all things considered.

The strident chime of the grandfather clock interrupts their discussion on ditches as an alternative to fortification, and Aden sighs despondently in anticipation of what’s to come. Sure enough, not one minute later a portly woman appears at the door waiting to usher the children upstairs. 

‘Can’t we stay a little longer since Clarke is here?’ Aden asks, eyes pleading.

Lexa shakes her head. ‘I’ve got to hurry if I’m even to get Clarke to the station on time for the late train.’

His brow furrows slightly at this. ‘You’ll come back though, to visit. We haven’t even shown you the horses yet.’

‘They like apples,’ Maya offers helpfully. ‘If you give them apples they’ll know you’re friends.’

‘Well that’s a bit like me with cakes,’ Clarke replies, eyes twinkling despite herself.

Maya giggles.

‘Tris is staying with me tonight,’ Anya says. ‘I need to see if I can get her some proper riding gear if she’s ever going to learn properly.’

Lexa nods. ‘I’m sure she’ll be pleased with that.’

‘Oh and well done,’ she says, turning to Clarke. ‘I hear your rally might have been crucial in allowing Lexa to pull of her mad little stunt yesterday.’

‘It worked, didn’t it?’ Lexa counters, and Clarke’s mind is unwittingly flooded with images of Lexa’s legendary victory. ‘The Bill is as good as passed. The king would be crazy to oppose it now that both houses have voted in favor.’

‘Ironically, neither of us can actually vote yet,’ Clarke mutters, shaking her head at the absurdity of the system.

‘Baby steps,’ Lexa replies, and they share a look that is half hope, half determination, and so filled with all the feelings of yore Clarke can hardly bear it. 

The rest of the farewells are made quickly, and Clarke and Lexa return somewhat awkwardly to the study to retrieve Clarke’s bag. The earlier need to explode has somewhat abated during the time spent with the children, but Clarke still feels constricted and leaden.

Lexa loiters by the door, ill at ease in her own home. Her eyes look down or flick around the room, as if afraid of looking directly at Clarke. What a contrast to the powerhouse who strode victoriously from the House of Lords yesterday. She swallows, hands clasped behind her back, readying herself to speak.

‘You could stay tonight. That is, if you have no pressing appointments tomorrow. I have guest bedrooms,’ she adds reassuringly. 

Clarke scoffs at the offer. ‘Really, Lexa? After all that you want to play house?’

Lexa’s jaw tightens. ‘I just meant…it’s late and snow has been falling for hours. It might be more prudent for you to return in the morning.’

‘I was surprised Anya left with Tris,’ Clarke blurts instead of replying. 

Lexa looks a bit puzzled by the change of topics, but her lip quirks slightly at the mention. 

‘I’m almost certain Anya now thinks Tris belongs to her. Woe be to any living relative who tries to come and claim her instead.’

Clarke scoffs, shakes her head. Is Lexa really playing the fool after everything? She feels a fresh flash of anger. Whatever happens she’ll at least own up to what she did.

‘I mean, why didn’t Anya just stay here. Aren’t the two of you…’ she trails off. There isn’t a word for it, for them. Lovers is too casual; companions too chaste. She feels sick when ‘wives’ pops into her mind. ‘Not that it’s any of my business. Apparently nothing pertaining to you is.’

Lexa looks puzzled for a moment, then her eyes widen in realization of what Clarke is trying to imply. 

‘With Anya?’ she gasps, disconcerted by the thought. ‘Oh no, Clarke. Anya’s been my friend almost my entire life. She was there when my parents passed. She rescued me after Costia, practically bullied me back to action. Her bloody stubbornness pulled me from my wallowing.’

Clarke feels her fist clench. A rundown of all the ways Anya is important to Lexa is the last thing she wants to hear.

‘But as a friend, a kind of sister, if you will,’ Lexa continues. ‘We’ve never…it’s never been like that between us.’ 

She’s struggling now, trying to find the words to impress Clarke with just how she feels. She moves forward absently, radiating nervous tension, face creased with sincerity. 

‘Clarke, there hasn’t been…I couldn’t,’ she trails off, eyes begging Clarke to understand. 

Clarke remains silent, gaze hardened, eyes flashing with all the accusations she wants to fling but has no right to because she has no claim to her. 

‘I know there is no excuse for my actions. I felt…I didn’t want to burden you with my situation. You could have the world, Clarke, go anywhere, be anyone. I am stuck here. If you…If I told you how I felt, you may have felt that something was expected of you in return. I couldn’t ask that of you.’

‘You couldn’t not tell me, Lexa. It wasn’t up to you to control my reality, to decide what knowledge I should or shouldn’t have to make my decisions. You tried to control what I felt.’

Lexa nods quietly. 

‘I’m sorry.’

The silence is heavy between them.

I don’t,’ she looks down, poking at the pattern on the sofa, ‘I don’t know how to want things for myself. My life is driven by the needs of others, their plights, their rights, their safety. I know how to do that, I know how to fight for them. But when it comes to myself, I know I’ll be okay without it, I can survive. I don’t need to take for myself.

‘When I met you I…all reason told me to stay away, that it wasn’t prudent. But you were so…magnetic. There’s just something about you, Clarke. I couldn’t help myself. Then I realized it was selfish to want you, to try and constrict your passion for life so that it fit into my world. I felt guilty that I had put you in danger, so I tried to protect you.

‘I never meant to hurt you, Clarke.’

Clarke hates the way her throat constricts, tears pooling on the edges of her eyes.

‘I thought you might miss me briefly and then move on. That your life would be easier.’

Clarke scoffs bitterly at this, only it comes out as more of a sob.

‘But it was never because I didn’t care or thought I could love another. I was lost from the moment I saw you.’ 

It’s a confession, resignation and inevitability wrapped in quiet sincerity. It’s not spoken as a means of seduction. There’s no expectation of receiving anything in return. It’s an explanation. She just wants Clarke to understand, to know how much she meant.

Clarke closes her eyes briefly, letting the significance of the words wash over her. 

‘Dammit, Lexa,’ she sighs in exasperation. 

Then she lunges forward, gripping the back of Lexa’s neck and drawing her to her. She kisses her, hard; the mess of emotions crashing through her lips. She kisses her like it’s the one thing that matters, like her heart’s finally started beating again. 

Lexa whimpers, caught completely off guard by the force of the kiss. Then she’s kissing her back, fingers tangling in her hair, lips soft and hungry. And Clarke’s head is swimming in the sensations, all at once familiar and new.

Then Lexa pulls back gently, hand resting on Clarke’s collarbone, eyes still closed as she inhales shakily, trying to collect herself. Her eyes open, searching Clarke’s, awed and incredulous, but still reserved, clinging to the last bit of control, afraid of falling, afraid Clarke won’t be there. Her eyes say everything her words do not. _Are you sure? I know I have wronged you and I have just laid bare my knotted life. I wouldn’t fault you for walking away._

Clarke’s eyes flick down to her beautiful, kiss-bruised lips, before meeting her gaze again. She wants to laugh in exasperation, shake some sense into her, make her realize that there is no decision to make, that she gave herself to Lexa long ago. Instead she fixes her with a determined look and kisses her again, deeper, swallowing the grateful whimper that escapes Lexa’s lips. She weaves closer, presses their bodies together, molding herself to Clarke. Clarke groans at the contact, tugs firmly at her waist. It’s been so long…she needs. 

They stumble back, Lexa gasping slightly as her back collides with the door. Clarke slips her tongue between her lips, thinking of her skin, her body. She feels the adrenaline tingle through her, pooling in the base of her stomach. She tugs at her shirt, trying to pull it out of its neat tuck into her riding pants, needing to feel.

‘Wait,’ Lexa gasps. 

Clarke sighs. They’ll have time for slow later. She needs this now. 

‘Not here. The staff, the kids.’ 

She takes her hand, pulling her through the hall, up the stairs, down another hall until they finally reach the right door. It’s all Clarke can go not to push her up against a wall and kiss her in the hall. 

When Lexa turns the key in the door she’s on her in a flash, tongue licking into her mouth as she practically tears the shirt out of her pants. There will be time for slow later. There is only need now, raw and demanding. 

Lexa begins to help her, hands trembling slightly as she fumbles with the buttons, and Clarke feels her stomach swoop. Lexa wants her. After months, years wondering. Lexa is literally quivering against her and Clarke goes a little mad at the sight. 

Clarke pushes the shirt open at last, breaking the kiss to watch the fabric slide off her shoulders. She pauses, drinking her in. She isn’t wearing a corset, but the smaller brasserie that falls delicately from her shoulders is half transparent revealing pebbled nipples and a full view of her taut stomach. Clarke hears her own sharp intake. 

‘You’re beautiful,’ she says, eyes gliding over her skin, mapping the dips and contours of her body. 

She looks up to find Lexa watching her, teeth sunk into her bottom lip, motionless but for the slight heaving of her chest. Clarke brushes her fingers slowly down her abs, reveling in the flutter of muscles beneath her touch. She places her palms on her stomach and leans in again. Her lips find her neck, tasting, breathing in her smell. When she reclaims the spot just under her ear Lexa moans quietly, gripping her arm. Clarke clenches at the sound. She still knows her, knows her body, knows the sound means she will find her all too ready, and fuck if she’s waiting any longer. 

She moves to fumble with her belt buckle and Lexa’s hands hurriedly sweep hers aside when she gets stuck, undoing it herself as Clarke’s fingers play against her ribs, teeth grazing the side of her neck. Lexa’s pants fall around her knees and Clarke traces her hand down over her hips, along the length of her thigh. She hears Lexa’s breath catch again and if she’s even half as wet as Clarke is…She feels a tremor run through her as her fingers travel up the inside of Lexa’s thigh, leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake. They’re both still, feeling the press of each other’s bodies, watching Clarke’s hand as it moves over Lexa’s silk underpants. 

Lexa swallows near her ear as she presses against her over the cloth. She feels the tense of muscles, isn’t sure who’s body the shiver started in. She strokes her lightly, two fingers against the damp barrier. She can feel everything, the hard, swollen nub, the folds just beneath. She bites her lip hard at the thought of being inside her, warm, wet. 

‘Clarke.’

Her voice is thick, husky and tremulous. Clarke looks up to meet her eyes, darkened by desire.

‘Touch me.’

Clarke clenches hard around nothing. Fuck. 

She keeps her gaze steady, feeding off the expectation in Lexa’s eyes. She slips her hand up and into the underwear, sliding down through damp curls. 

They both moan when Clarke finally touches her. She slides through the length of her, controlling the pressure, spreading her juices around her swollen entrance, up to her clit, relearning what she likes through her little whimpers and gasps. She’s dripping, soft and wet and open, and Clarke just wants to be inside her, needs to feel what it’s like again. 

She angles her hips, pinning Lexa more firmly against the wall, thigh spreading her legs as far as they can go given the restrictions of her pants around her knees. It’s far from ideal. Clarke doesn’t care. She fixes Lexa with a look and pushes slowly into her, thigh driving her fingers deep. Lexa’s moan, a little a cry of relief as her head presses back against the wall. Clarke slides back and thrusts again, feels her own desire drip down her thigh as Lexa clenches around her, sucking her fingers in. 

Clarke thought she knew, that she remembered what it was like to be with Lexa, to be in Lexa. But she remembered nothing. None of her memories or thoughts or fantasies could ever come close to the wonder of being here, of curling her trembling fingers inside her and feeling the ripples all through her body, the clench and grip of her limbs, the breathy sighs, each one a little plea, a prayer, an insurance that Clarke won’t stop. She forgot how close it is, how strong the connection. She feels every move and flutter and shiver of pleasure in Lexa’s body. She could come just watching her. 

Lexa opens her eyes again, trying to focus on Clarke’s. They’re hazy and roll back a little each time she curls her fingers just right and Clarke loves to watch them. She’s reaching down, moving to lift Clarke’s dress above her legs. Lexa slides her own muscled thigh between hers and Clarke moans when her own swollen clit finally makes contact. She grinds gently, trying not to appear too desperate, focusing on the flick of her own fingers inside Lexa. But Lexa has other ideas. Clarke gasps when firm hands grab her ass and pull her practically onto her leg, encouraging her to rub shamelessly against her, every thrust pushing her own hand harder into Lexa.

It’s a bit awkward and the angle puts a strain on her wrist and only allows for smaller thrusts. But by the looks of it it won’t be a problem. Lexa’s quivering breaths and glassy eyes tell Clarke she’s almost there. She kisses her, hard, delicious and a little messy as they move together, Lexa’s sounds echoing in her mouth and sending new waves of pleasure through her body. Then her body stiffens, thigh tensing between Clarke’s, and Clarke pulls back to watch. 

She isn’t loud, controlled moans forcing the release to tremble through her body instead as she clenches hard around Clarke, hips bucking forward, neck taut and beautiful. Clarke quivers with her pleasure, feels it push her to her own orgasm. She’s not as quiet, Lexa’s name ripping from her mouth in a moan as Lexa’s hands pull her close, fingers digging into the skin below her underwear.

They stay there, panting slightly against each other, too awed to move just yet. Finally they’ve managed to cut through the layers of distance. Gone is the awkward hesitation, the insecurity, the uncertainty. It’s like they’ve met at last.

‘Goddess, I missed you!’ Clarke exhales, burying her face in the crook of Lexa’s neck, breathing in her smell. 

She still smells like Lexa, like home. Clarke feels the anxious, wandering fragment of her soul finally settle.

\-------

They’re dozing lightly, sleep not being particularly high on their to-do list after finally finding each other again. 

Their frenzied, half-clothed reacquaintance was just the spark that set things in motion. There were hours to be spent undressing, relearning each other’s bodies, mapping old trails and exploring new scars and marks. Orgasms varying from fiery, desperate releases to slow, languid build-ups, to smaller surprises when lazy caresses turned into more. 

Clarke sighs happily as Lexa gently traces her back, fingers tripping over a rather scary looking scar behind her left shoulder. 

‘This was the grenade?’ she asks quietly.

‘Mmmh,’ Clarke hums affirmatively. ‘You should’ve seen the other guy.’

Her tone is light but where are still nights when she wakes up in cold sweat after dreaming of his haunted face, nights when she’s just not fast enough to pry the grenade from his hand in time.

‘I heard you were amazing,’ Lexa replies softly. 

Clarke smiles.

‘Are we ok?’ she continues quietly. ‘I know I…’

Clarke turns, resting her head on the pillow inches from Lexa’s.

‘It wasn’t right, what I did. If I could take it back…’

Clarke shushes her, gently tracing the back of her hand against her cheek. 

‘It’s ok,’ she says. ‘I…I’ll be a little mad. It’ll take time, but we’ll be ok. Just…Lex, you have to promise me that you won’t do it again, you won’t shut me out again. We have enough battles to face as it is, enough forces keeping us apart. I don’t ever want you to protect me from you. It’s okay for you to be happy too. It is,’ she adds more forcefully when Lexa presses her eyes closed. ‘Don’t ever think that you’re not worth it, that I’m not willing to do what it takes for this…for you. I’ve seen a lot of things these years and I know what I want.’

Lexa’s eyes search hers then, breath caught in her throat. Even then she won’t presume to think that Clarke is will stay.

‘I want you,’ Clarke says softly, pressing the pad of her thumb to Lexa’s lip.

Lexa swallows, a silent tear making its way down her cheek.

‘Are you sure?’ she asks, voice a little shaky. ‘It won’t be, we can’t, it’s not the same as if you were with a man. I’m still technically married and…’

‘Hey,’ Clarke says, interrupting her before she spirals further. ‘I said it, didn’t I? We’ll talk it through when we’re a little more awake and perhaps fully-clothed. But I’m here, ok? Let me be here.’

Lexa nods, leaning forward to capture her lips in a kiss. It tastes different from the kisses before, it’s soft, filled with confidence and hope and joy. It’s more than a stolen kiss between lovers. It’s the kiss of those who know they belong together. 

‘Clarke Griffin, you make me incredibly happy.’ 

It’s a little cheesy, a little formal, entirely Lexa. Clarke laughs, kissing her again before she’s fully stopped smiling. 

‘I love you too, Lexa.’

Lexa looks flustered at this. 

‘But I never…’

Clarke just raises her eyebrows challengingly, silently daring her to deny it. 

Lexa shakes her head, rolls them over so she can straddle Clarke’s hips. Clarke feels the fuzzy warmth in her body change to something hotter, more electric. 

‘You,’ Lexa says smirking down at her, ‘are growing a little too haughty.’

‘Am I?’ Clarke asks, pulling on a perplexed look. ‘Whatever shall we do about that?’

‘I have a few ideas,’ Lexa replies, eyes roving hungrily across her body.

‘Well, I say we begin treatment immediately,’ Clarke replies.

Lexa laughs and leans down to kiss her. 

\-------

Sometime later, when the night is already paling into dawn, Clarke is tucked comfortably against Lexa’s back, arm slung around so Lexa can play with her hand sleepily. She feels Clarke’s breath evening out behind her and knows that sleep isn’t far away. Lexa’s body feels relaxed, heavy with release, but she can’t sleep. She wants to bask, to stretch the night out into a year or three. 

For too long her nights have been sleepless worrying about Clarke, wondering if she is ok, dreading that the next day would bring news of an accident or attack. Her beds were too large, too cold, transformed into dreaded hallows where her mind would be set loose to trot out her deepest fears. 

But tonight her bed is warm. Clarke is safe. And for the first time in years, she feels at peace. She presses her lip to Clarke’s hand in hers. 

‘I love you,’ she whispers. 

Clarke doesn’t reply but she feels a smile against her back which tells her she’s heard it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I stole a line from The French Lieutenant's Woman, but it's one of my favorite lines ever and it fit so *shrugs*
> 
> This is pretty much it for the story. There will be a rather long epilogue that I'm looking forward to writing.


	27. Chapter 27

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When the curtain falls no one is ready.  
> ~ Olive Schreiner

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tried something a bit different for the epilogue. Love it, hate it or give little fucks whatsoever.

‘Alex, would you turn the volume up?’

She does so without the usual eyeroll and jab at my failing ears, a good indicator that she’s just as interested as I am.

_‘…in an astounding decision by the House today, received with mixed reactions from the crowds gathered outside.’_

_‘It’s just not right, is it? I mean, it’s all well an’ good for them ta be that way in their own homes. But bringing children into it…it jus’ ain’ healthy.’_

_‘Well good on them! It’s about time they came to their senses and lifted those ridiculous restrictions. I mean, to deny children homes with people who are eager to love and care for them is just absurd. What does gender or sexuality have to do with parenting?’_

_‘Quite frankly, I’m appalled by the decision. There’s a certain, natural way things should be, the way it’s been for millennia. Children ought to have a father and a mother. They each have different traits and will pass those on to their children in a balanced fashion. Having two men or two women raise a child causes imbalance and impedes well-rounded development. There is simply no way healthy children can be raised in such an environment.’_

_‘Well, there you have it. And regardless of public opinion, the House has voted in favor of same sex adoption. The Adoption and Children Act is set to go into force…’_

I can feel the smile teasing at my lips as I sit back in my chair.

‘Well isn’t that something.’

Alex regards me cautiously, perhaps unsure of what her old geezer of a grandfather thinks of such things. 

‘It’s about time they came to their senses.’

She smiles then, slow and half incredulously. There’s that twinkle in her eye that hints of mischief, but also determination, character. Trademark Woods. She pats my arm approvingly before hopping up to put the kettle on. If my reaction surprises her perhaps it’s time she learned a bit more about her heritage and the woman that gave her her name.

The television set stays on in the background, but one of the benefits of impaired hearing is that one can more easily tune out undesirable noises. I have little interest in hearing overnight experts ramble on about whether or not ‘The Gays’ are capable of parenting, as if they are some big unknown beast and not a group of individuals who will be judged on their own merits by adoption committees. 

I’ve lived through most of last century and managed to eke my way into this one, and if there’s one thing I’ve learned it’s that all major social change follows a similar pattern. First, a thing is dismissed as impossible, unheard of. People do it anyway, proving it can be done, and done well. Sapped of excuses, the governing body can only hold back the tide of change for so long before their buffoonery becomes laughable. Then changes to policy are made. Prejudice persists and those with newly attained rights have to fight all the harder to actually claim them, ever aware that they could wake up one morning and find them gone. Today’s decision is a major step, but by no means the end.

My mothers were amongst the first to quietly prove it could be done at a time where even a woman steering her own life without a man was a strange phenomenon. All that I know of honor and courage and selflessness and love, I first saw in them. 

Of course, to call them both ‘mother’ at the time would’ve been unthinkable. 

I first met Clarke in a photograph. Mother was back from London, which always made the old estate feel rather magical, like we’d been holding our breath until the flurry of activity that accompanied her return. Not that she was ever flurried, mind, but her quiet presence seemed to fill the space, imbuing the house and its residents with a sense of purpose once again. It felt like something grandiose might happen at any moment. 

Naturally I could never dream of sleeping on her first nights back. No matter how extended a dinner we had shared, it only seemed to remind me how much I’d missed her. Once the governess had left I would sneak into the hall or onto the landing to try and get a sense of the mysterious activities that filled her life. I loved the way her melodious tones would ripple quietly through the house, echoing off the walls and ceilings to reach my straining ears at last, though I could rarely make out the words. 

I remember that night especially for she seemed troubled, even to my 5-year-old self. I had seen her worried about my sister, in the previous weeks, but she was well now so it couldn’t be that. It was a quiet sort of sadness that tinged the edge of her eyes even when she smiled, and it is perhaps what propelled me down the hall to her room claiming I couldn’t sleep. I found her in bed with the lamp on examining something. She narrowed her eyes in mock suspicion as I presented my half-baked excuses for being there, then smiled and patted the bed next to her. I climbed in contentedly, reveling in her warmth, in this moment that was just ours. 

‘Who’s that?’ I asked, looking at the photograph of a woman she held. I was drawn immediately to the sparkle in her eyes, the tease in her smile.

‘She’s a very good friend of mine,’ she replied, and her voice was soft, somehow both happier and sadder at the same time.

‘Why is she dressed like a man?’

She smiled then. ‘She was playing dress-up for the picture.’

‘She still looks pretty,’ I decided after another moment’s consideration.

‘She does,’ mother replied. There was that familiar warmth in her tone that made me feel safe.

‘Can I keep it?’

She laughed. ‘No.’

It was strange, to be told ‘no’ with no explanation. Mother was always careful to provide the rationale behind decisions. 

She must have noticed the disappointment in my face.

‘I’ll tell you what, I’ll keep it here in this drawer and when you want to look at it you can ask me. We’ll share it that way.’

I settled down after that, pleased with the compromise.

\-------

When Clarke first started visiting everything changed. On the one hand, she slipped into our lives rather seamlessly. There was no formality or ceremony with her around like with most guests, it was more like with Anya, she just belonged. On the other hand, she had a way of disrupting the careful structure of our lives, which I adored. We never kept to schedule quite so rigidly with her there, lessons were often shortened and meals took up additional hours to make room for her stories. Mother smiled more, was more playful and indulgent with her around.

I remember when she first witnessed our training sessions with mother and Anya, both keen that we should all know how to defend ourselves. Their demonstration of a reverse flip maneuver had, as it was wont to do, escalated until both women were sparring with dangerous intensity, neither willing to relinquish the day.

‘You’re savages,’ Clarke exclaimed open-jawed.

The women paused, as if only then realizing that their audience now contained an adult.

‘We are what we are,’ mother replied with solemn determinism, before letting fly the snowball she had carefully been forming behind her back. 

That resulted in the most ferocious snowball fight the Woolcott estate had witnessed in generations.

Or that first spring when Clarke got a three-day furlough from the hospital and we decided to teach her to ride. She insisted that there was no need for instruction and she would pick it up like she did most things: instinctively. She really was fearless, but something about being on the animal upset her sense of control, and she was stiff in the saddle and couldn’t get the horse to do anything but shake its head and nibble absently at the new shoots. Mother teased her gently as she pranced around her on her chestnut mare, but when Clarke grew frustrated she climbed onto the horse behind her, correcting her posture and encouraging her to mimic her movements, much like she had when teaching me and Maya. Within the hour Clarke was trotting along with the rest of us. But there was something about the way my mother instructed her, the way Clarke instinctively relaxed against her. I knew then that Clarke was family.

\-------

It seemed only natural that Clarke spent any days she could take off from her busy training with us. The guest room next to mother’s became ‘Clarke’s room’ and slowly filled up with more and more of her belongings. I loved to wander in when she was home, catch a glimpse of one of her new sketches or have her explain some part of human anatomy she was currently studying for an upcoming exam. Her room was like no other in the house, and I sometimes wondered how she could even get into bed at night with all the clutter lying around. She had books and sketches, half-finished chess games she was simultaneously playing with me and mother, and pictures. 

She had dug an old camera out of a closet and carried it with her everywhere at the estate, snapping photographs at the oddest times, which she would develop herself and then hang around the room. I loved how I could see our lives in those photographs. There were pictures of the special occasions of course, Lincoln and Octavia’s wedding, birthdays, Christmases, the day Anya officially adopted Tris. But I liked the ordinary pictures better; a spur of the moment picnic, Maya puzzling over math, the first lopsided tie I managed to tie, mother reading at her sunlit desk. She seemed to capture what it meant to be us, like she could freeze those moments onto film and we could feel them all over again when we looked. 

Mother taught me patience and pragmatism, analyzing the bigger picture as well as the players involved with their hidden motivations. Clarke added the messy exuberance of creativity, the scrappy, ‘let’s turn this problem on its head and see if we can’t solve it from another angle’ approach.

\-------

I didn’t see much of my father growing up. Even before my parents had a falling out he was never really around and when he was, treated me as little more than a peripheral annoyance. When mother announced that he wouldn’t be attending our annual summer party and that we likely wouldn’t see him in a while, I felt mostly pleased that the little bubble we had created with the addition of Clarke would be preserved. Instinct told me they would not happily share the same space.

However, shortly before my eighteenth birthday, mother called me into her study to explain that father had decided to make the separation official. He had met another woman and wanted to get remarried. Apparently whatever charms she possessed were stronger than the shame of divorce. The law had changed by then, with a new Bill being passed that gave women more rights after a divorce, better chances of keeping custody of the children. 

My father had sent a letter, requesting that I spend the summer with him in order to decide where I wished to reside after the divorce. He wrote that now that I was a man, he wanted to groom me, to teach me the business and how to move as a gentleman in high society, things I couldn’t possibly learn in a house filled with women. I agreed, more out of curiosity than any lacks I felt in my life. In fact my life felt rather full. Now that I could drive, I was keen to enjoy as much of summer in the country as I could before beginning law school in the fall, although I felt mother had probably already taught me more than I could ever hope to learn there. Still, he was my father, and there is a kind of unspoken rule that we owe family a shot, whether or not we feel the need for them.

I learned many things during that visit. I learned that two parents are not always better than one, that a father’s presence might do more harm than good if the bulk of his interactions are belittling and harmful. 

I was still rather gangly at 17, though an accomplished equestrian, swordsman, and dancer, and could discuss anything from politics to philosophy to the rise of cubism that was revolutionizing the European art world. I was soon classified as a promising young gentleman and became a popular guest at summer parties and galas.

Still, he looked for flaws, as if I’d arrived pre-marked as defective and needed to be fixed. I was appalled by his business strategies and fought with him almost nightly when he took to insulting my mother. I grew tired of his games, the oily compromises attached to his glittery life of privilege, and longed to return home. 

To this day, I can see the cautious look in mother’s eyes when I told her he’d threatened to disinherit me if I left, the glimmering pride when I told her that I would make my own way in life, like Clarke had. 

‘I want nothing from him, not his business nor his money. Not his bloody title either.’

‘You know we will likely have to leave here, Aden. This house is his. We can use your uncle’s house in London, but it’s smaller. Things will be different. We’ll have to make do with less.’

‘We’ll be closer to Clarke.’

‘We will.’ 

She smiled then, and I knew she was pleased. She did not care if I became a lord or not. Her measure of success was not nearly that petty.

‘I don’t even want his name,’ I said quietly. Then after a paus, ‘Will you keep it?’

Divorce was so rare, I did not know what the protocol was. I doubted anyone did. 

‘I will no longer have that esteemed privilege,’ she replied dryly.

‘Then I shall change mine as well. Your parents had no sons to carry on their name. We shall do it for them. Aden Woods sounds better anyway.’

She hugged me then, and I pretended not to notice the dampness on my collar.

\-------

There was some talk when Clarke officially moved into our house in London, though she was occasionally seen around town with my uncle, and the rumors were that he was officially courting her and they would settle down once she’d had enough of doctoring. In any case, as a rather disgraced divorcee who’d had to relinquish the extravagant life she once lived, it seemed only logical that my mother would take on a boarder for financial reasons. 

I have only the fondest memories of coming home to our London house on the weekends. We had far less staff than at the country estate, though we still kept on a cook as both my mothers were hopeless in the kitchen. It felt homier though. Lincoln and Octavia were frequent visitors, their children the cousins we didn’t have. Raven too, now that we were nearby. She and Maya would disappear into the basement for hours, the occasional bang and foul smell evidence of their questionable experiments. Clarke would perch on mother’s armchair as she read, or quiz Maya in preparation for her university applications, and I would catch mother looking at her then, all softness and awe. I realized that the ever-present sorrow that had been in her eyes throughout my childhood had faded. She seemed at peace now and the sight filled me with warmth.

Clarke’s hospital friends would come over as well, and our living room became a strategic hub for suffragist activities. One of my proudest moments was the day mother called me into her study where she was drafting a new Bill with Lord Kane and asked me to go over the wording with her. I felt more validated than the day I officially became a barrister. 

None of my school parties could compare with the celebration we threw the day women, all women regardless of age or financial status, won the right to vote. Clarke came barreling through the door, interrupting mother with a flying leap that would’ve knocked many a bigger person right over.

‘We did it,’ she beamed. ‘We bloody did it!’

Mother smiled, that rare radiant smile that lit up her face. ‘We did it,’ she replied, giving Clarke a little twirl. 

They stayed there a moment, perhaps reveling in the history of the struggle they’d given so much to, before Clarke seemed to realize where they were and hopped down. 

‘Right, Aden, I’m afraid it’s all hands on deck to prepare for the impromptu party. I hope you didn’t have somewhere to be.’ 

When the women and men who had fought for decades to make this moment happen were laughing, talking and occasionally whooping wildly in our home, I knew I wouldn’t have missed it for the world. 

\-------

I never thought much about what my mothers were to each other. They just always were. It was right and comfortable, it fit. There was never any need to question or define it. That is, not until I began having romantic interests of my own. 

I may no longer have been heir to the Woolcott estate, but I was on my way to becoming a successful lawyer and the Woods name still commanded respect thanks to my uncle and grandparents. Thus my mother’s acquaintances were all too eager to introduce me to young bachelorettes. I found myself smiling along and playing my role as a gentleman, but when they spoke of good families, inheritances and pretty faces, I found I was holding out for something else, something I couldn’t quite name or source.

And then one evening I returned late to find Clarke curled up on the sofa asleep on mother’s shoulder. She flushed a little at being caught in that position, but the thought of upsetting Clarke kept her put.

‘We were debating how to best campaign for better job opportunities for skilled women—she’d probably storm the factories and establish her own hierarchy if I let her—and she fell asleep mid-sentence. I think the new paper she’s co-authoring on traumatic care is taking its toll.’

I shook my head slightly and smiled my way upstairs. This was it; what I was looking for. They could certainly test each other—Maya and I had a special look for when they were butting heads and we wanted any excuse to be elsewhere—but their respect was never in question, and so even in conflict they made each other better. They would always protect each other no matter what. They made each other both stronger and softer. 

That may have been why it took me longer than most to settle down, but when I caught myself looking at Constance the way mother looked at Clarke, I knew I’d found the one.

\-------

My mothers will always be a bit of a mystery too. I feel I know them quite well by now, but wouldn’t be surprised to one day discover a document that adds a whole new dimension to their lives, much like the photograph I discovered while cleaning out the attic before their move. 

Titus had passed away shortly after the end of the second great war, and had grudgingly left me the Woods estate as he had no heirs of his own. I was just beginning to set up my new practice and had no desire to leave London, but mother’s eyes had practically glowed when I suggested switching estates. She and Clarke were set to move out before my upcoming wedding. 

Clarke and I were rummaging through the attic. I was looking for the original draft of the first suffrage bill mother had said I could frame in my office, and she claimed to be in search of a sketch Raven wanted, though I suspected she only needed an excuse to ensure that I did no heavy lifting before the bullet wound in my leg was properly healed.

It was an old photograph, no doubt taken with the folding Brownie camera Clarke was especially partial to, despite all the newer models that had been released. Clarke was wearing the same outfit she had on in that first picture I’d seen years ago, except she’d put on a dark moustache in this one, which added an air of absurdity. Mother was there too, also dressed in a tailored suit. Even without the glasses, with her hair pulled back like that she looked awfully like…

‘Lucius.’

Clarke froze a little at the name, laying aside the pile of things she’d been perusing and coming to stand over my shoulder. She shook her head fondly, carefully lifting the picture out of my hand.

‘I’d just gotten out of jail and had to borrow some clothes from Lucius’s wardrobe. I did rather make an event of it.’

Jail? Ok, one revelation at a time.

‘Mother is Lucius.’ It’s not a question. Not really. Not when the photograph is staring back at me, a more binding evidence than any lawyer could hope for. 

Clarke tilts her head at me, a little amused, a little proud, still not giving anything away. 

‘How many times have you seen Lucius growing up?’

‘Never. Well, mother said I met him once when I was too young to remember. He’s always been busy.’

‘For decades while living a few hours away? That’s convenient,’ she smiled.

‘So, mother was a codebreaker during the war, an MP in the House of Commons, a ‘man’ defending women’s rights...’

Clarke shrugged a little as if to say, ‘Are you really surprised?’

I sighed, trying to wrap my head around my mother’s secret identity, matching it with the evidence I had from our life together.

‘Don’t worry, she didn’t tell me either. I had to stumble on it too. She does like her secrets, that one. Thinks she needs to carry the whole world alone.’

We shared a conspiratorial smile.

‘I suppose I should’ve known, what with you and Lucius carrying on.’

Clarke blushed at that, and it was very hard to make Clarke Griffin blush.

‘How do you mean?’

‘Well, at first I thought you were going out just to keep rumors at bay, but then you always came back so happy, so I did wonder at times. Mother didn’t seem too bothered though so I didn’t give it much thought.’

Clarke’s blue eyes bore into mine, gauging my reaction.

‘Maya was a bit worried at one point. She called me one day when you were out to ask if I thought mother could beat Lucius in a duel for your hand.’

She laughed then, full and hearty with a hint of relief. 

‘Your mother,’ she replied, ‘could lead an army into battle without batting an eye.’

I pictured it then. She would probably go for warpaint, wield the sword she so loved to spar with rather than a gun. She was awfully theatrical.

‘I don’t doubt it,’ I answered, and we shared a smile at the thought.

\-------

The Woods estate had fallen into a frightful state of disrepair. The garden was a veritable forest and there were only odd chunks of fence visible here and there. The stairs leading up to the once stately doors were old and rotting, the door itself covered in moss. 

Still, mother walked through the yard slowly, almost reverently, so that the three of us stood back, knowing instinctively not to intrude. She ran her fingers over the door, smiling at some memory triggered by a dent just above the handle. She barely seemed to notice how it creaked when she pushed it open, eyes widening to take in the hall. Her steps were soft, as if she were a child again, awed by the high ceilings and lingering echoes.

Forty years. It had been forty years since she’d been here. Clarke took my arm, squeezing slightly as we watched her, unwilling to interrupt. Only when she’d ventured out of sight did Maya dare to speak.

‘Well, the next time mum goes off on the ‘Why I’m not religious’ spiel she’s so fond of, you two’d better back me up on how she looked just about ready to kneel and kiss the threshold just there.’

She shook her head and trotted in ahead, poking around curiously as soon as she was inside.

It was a fine house. Certainly not as grand as the Woolcott estate, but despite its dilapidated state, there was no denying it had character, and one which I heartily preferred. Or perhaps the meaning it held for mother prevented me from forming a truly objective opinion. 

Either way, when she appeared again at the top of the stairs, eyes beaming with a rare kind of pride, I shared in her sense of heritage.

‘They would’ve been so happy to know we’re here.’ She spoke of them so rarely she immediately had all our attention. ‘They always did love this place, perhaps a bit stubbornly. Father could go on about it whenever someone mentioned that another estate was larger or had a better park or stables.’

She smiled then. 

‘They would’ve loved you both, I imagine they would’ve talked their friends’ ears off about what fine people you’ve become. And yes,’ she said crossing to Clarke, ‘they would even have loved you, challenging as that might be.’

Clarke merely raised her eyebrows, too used to their banter to rise to the jab. 

I smiled down, wondering what kind of people my grandparents had been to raise such a formidable woman.

\-------

‘Are you cold, Grandy? Shall I bring you a blanket before pouring the tea?’

‘I’m fine, dear. Summer’s come early this year.’

I watch her pour. She’s very precise in her movements, efficient. 

‘Oh they’re still going on about that same-sex parenting thing, huh.’ She rolls her eyes dramatically. ‘Honestly, being a good or bad parent has nothing to do with gender or sexual orientation. And it’s not like women can’t be strong or men can’t be tender. Their arguments are so 1920s.’

A laugh at the reference to my childhood era.

‘All the best things in life I learned from two women. They were fearless, both of them. You know, when I was on the battlefield, I didn’t think of my father at all. I thought of mother decoding messages and outwitting spies, or of Clarke, working to heal while surrounded by destruction. I thought of them practically fuming that they weren’t allowed to return to war again, and doing everything they could on the home front. When I got cases where the odds were stacked against me, I thought of Clarke’s long hours in the operating theater, hoping against hope she could save a life, I thought of mother,strolling into a room full of backwards men without a second thought. When backing the underdog wasn’t politically prudent, I thought of Clarke being unjustly imprisoned and mother storming in there to get her out, or of mother risking exposure as she dressed as a man and fought for her rights.’

I think of smaller things too: their quiet tenacity in the face of defeats and enduring prejudice, cozy evenings around the fire, witty exchanges, intelligent debates that stimulate instead of crush, the smell of a stop bath, politics, chess, and musty books. I think of a place where everything was believed possible, where improvement wasn’t a question of ‘if’ but ‘when’. A place where it was also ok to be weak, to be tired, to curl up and sigh and let everything go for a night, a place where we protected each other.

‘The reason I accomplished anything or that Maya became one of the leading physicist in her field despite misogyny, is because they showed us how to be brave. Not just brave enough to try, but the kind of brave that keeps getting back up.

‘I saw what my father had to offer, and chose them instead. He could never have given me that. Yes, I would still have had mother. But Clarke, Clarke was the missing piece. She drew out sides of us we might never have found without her. They were each amazing in their own right, but together they became a something truly splendid.’

I laugh then, catching the skeptical look Alex is throwing me. 

‘Gosh I never knew you were such a sap, Grandy. Is that something they taught you too.’

‘Ha. No. Although mother did have a flair for the dramatic. I suppose it’s the same sort of thing.’

‘How come you never told me about them?’

‘It was not the kind of thing one spoke of. And then I suppose you never asked.’

‘How was I supposed to know they were cross-dressing, trail-blazing powerhouses? Do you realize how much bragging rights this will give me when I go back to uni? I need the deets.’

I laugh. ‘Alright, turn off the telly and we’ll get started.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I actually feel really sad letting this go, even though it has made me its bitch for half a year. 
> 
> A huge thank you to everyone who has left kudos and comments, especially those who have stuck with this mess from the beginning. Your support kept me going and I really kinda feel like we were on this ride together. It meant a lot to me.
> 
> And of course, a shoutout to le roi @lapizsilkwood. You know what you do and I've been sappy enough already on here. As Miranda would say, we're not Spanish.
> 
> I know there are a few things I didn't wrap up here, but I do have the storylines mapped out, it just didn't fit into Aden's narrative. If you have any questions feel free to pop me up here or on tumblr. Who knows, there might be a one-shot or two in future.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm @i-like-heda on tumblr if you fancy a chat.


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